In the shadowed halls of Castle Velmont, where tapestries of ancient conquests hung heavy with dust and desire, lived Alaric de Velmont—the only son of Duke Reynard, ruler of the storm-swept duchy of Eldrath. At twenty-two, Alaric was already taller than most knights, his body forged in secret training yards and even more secret bedchambers. Black hair fell in waves to his shoulders, and his eyes—cold emerald fire—could make a virgin blush or a married woman soak her silks with a single glance.
But Alaric did not crave virgins.
He craved the ruined ones.
The proud matrons whose husbands had long since grown bored or impotent.
The busty dowagers whose massive tits had fed half the nobility's bastards.
The thick-hipped widows whose asses clapped like war drums when they rode a cock reverse-cowgirl in the moonlight.
Women whose cunts dripped like honeycombs long after their lords stopped bothering to lick them.
He wanted them broken, begging, and utterly his.
Tonight, the castle hosted a feast for the widowed Lady Seraphine of House Blackthorne—forty-two summers old, twice widowed, and legendarily cursed. They said any man who bedded her died within a moon. Perfect. Alaric's cock twitched at the thought of conquering death itself between those thunderous thighs.
The great hall roared with drunken laughter. Torchlight flickered over Lady Seraphine's crimson gown, cut so low her enormous breasts threatened to spill like overripe fruit. Each breath made the pale flesh quiver, blue veins visible beneath translucent skin. Her nipples—thick as cherubs' thumbs—poked shamelessly through the silk. Below, the gown hugged an ass so criminally fat it had its own gravitational pull; lords kept "accidentally" dropping their goblets just to watch her bend.
Alaric waited until the minstrels struck a bawdy tune. Then he moved.
"Lady Blackthorne," he purred, bowing low enough for his lips to brush the sweat-damp valley between her tits. "They say your late husbands perished from too much… richness. Allow me to test the rumor."
Seraphine's laugh was low thunder. "Boy, I could smother you before you unlace your breeches."
"Try," he whispered, sliding a hand beneath the table to grip the inside of her thigh. Her skin burned. Higher—he found no smallclothes. Just slick, puffy folds already weeping for him. Two fingers sank in to the knuckle with a wet squelch that made her bite her lip bloody.
"Gods below," she hissed, hips rolling involuntarily. "You're bold."
"I'm starving."
He dragged her from the hall mid-song, past gaping servants and envious knights, up the spiral stairs to his private solar. The moment the door slammed, Alaric ripped her gown down the front. Her tits burst free—each bigger than his head, heavy as sin, with saucer-sized areolas the color of bruised plums. Milk-white flesh streaked with faint stretch marks only made his cock throb harder.
"On your knees, widow."
Seraphine obeyed, sinking into the furs. Her fingers tore at his laces; his prick sprang out like a battering ram—eleven inches of veined arrogance, already glistening. She moaned at the sight, drool spilling over her bottom lip.
"Feed me those udders first," he commanded.
She lifted one massive breast, offering the leaking nipple. Alaric latched on like a starving wolf, sucking hard. Sweet-sour milk flooded his mouth as he gulped, one hand kneading the other tit until milk sprayed in thin arcs across his cheek. Seraphine sobbed with relief, her cunt gushing so hard it pattered onto the stone floor.
He pulled off with a wet pop. "Turn around. I want that fat ass in my face."
She scrambled to all fours, hiking her ruined gown. Her backside was obscene—two pale moons split by a deep crack, cheeks trembling with every breath. Between them, her pussy lips hung swollen and dark, glistening like fresh figs split open. Clear nectar dripped in steady ropes from her entrance, pooling beneath her knees.
Alaric buried his face. The taste exploded—tangy, musky, pure depravity. He speared his tongue inside, feeling her walls flutter and spasm. Seraphine screamed, pushing back, smothering him in wet flesh until he nearly drowned in her juices.
"Please," she wailed, voice cracking. "Fuck me. Breed me. Ruin me!"
He rose, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. One brutal thrust buried him to the hilt. Her cunt clamped down so tight he saw stars. He pulled back—schlorp!—then slammed home again, balls slapping her clit with wet claps. Milk still leaked from her nipples, splattering the furs with every impact.
"Whose are you?" he snarled, yanking her hair until her back arched.
"YOURS!" she shrieked. "Alaric's milk-slut! Alaric's breeding sow!"
He pounded harder, watching her ass ripple like waves on a stormy sea. Her pussy farted and squelched around his cock, spraying juices down his thighs. When she came, it was apocalyptic—her whole body seized, cunt milking him in rhythmic pulses as she squirted in long, shameful arcs across the room.
Alaric roared, pumping rope after thick rope of seed into her greedy womb. He didn't pull out until she collapsed, trembling, his spend leaking in thick rivers from her gaping hole.
He stroked her sweat-soaked back. "Welcome to my harem, Lady Blackthorne. You're the first. But not the last."
As dawn bled through the arrowslit windows, Seraphine lay curled at his feet, collared with his belt, nipples still dripping, pussy wrecked and fluttering around a jade plug he'd shoved in to keep his cum inside.
Somewhere in the castle, three more widowed duchesses were arriving for the week-long feast.
Alaric smiled, licking milk from his lips.
Three nights after Seraphine became his dripping, collared pet, Alaric prowled the moonlit corridors with the taste of her milk still lingering on his tongue. The castle thrummed with new arrivals: four dowager duchesses invited under the pretense of mourning alliances. In truth, Alaric had chosen each one for the way their gowns strained, the way their eyes flicked to his codpiece when they thought no one noticed.
Tonight's prey: Duchess Isolde of House Grimholt, forty-five, widowed thrice, mother of six, and infamous for bankrupting three kingdoms just to afford gowns that could contain her obscene body. They called her "the Walking Sin" behind her back. Alaric called her "next."
He found her in the rose garden, pretending to admire night-blooming lilies while secretly grinding her thighs together. The scent of her arousal drifted on the warm air like musk and honey.
Isolde wore mourning black, but the fabric was scandalously sheer. Torchlight revealed everything: breasts like overfilled wineskins, each nipple pierced with a tiny silver ring that glinted when she breathed. Her waist had thickened deliciously with age, flaring into hips wide enough to block doorways and an ass so colossal it made Seraphine's look modest. Between those cheeks, a damp patch darkened the silk; she'd been wet since supper.
"Duchess," Alaric murmured, stepping from the shadows. "The roses pale beside you."
Isolde startled, then smirked. "Lord Alaric. They say you broke Lady Blackthorne so thoroughly she now crawls at your heels leaking like a cracked barrel. Should I be frightened?"
"Terrified," he said, closing the distance. "Or soaked. Whichever comes first."
He pressed her against the marble balustrade, mouth crashing onto hers. She tasted of spiced wine and desperation. Her tongue wrestled his like a woman starved, massive tits squashing against his chest until he felt her pierced nipples scrape his tunic.
Alaric yanked her bodice down. The rings tinkled as her breasts spilled free—heavy, veined, impossibly soft yet firm. Milk beaded at the tips; apparently all these noble widows lactated like prize cows. He tugged one ring with his teeth. Isolde keened, back arching, a jet of warm milk hitting his cheek.
"Filthy boy," she gasped. "You'll drown in me."
"Promise?"
He spun her, bending her over the balustrade. The garden dropped three stories below; any passing guard would see the Duchess of Grimholt presented like a broodmare. Alaric hiked her skirts. No undergarments—of course. Her ass was a landscape: pale moons dimpled with age, split by a canyon that glistened with sweat and cunt-honey. Her pussy lips were fat, dark, and protruding, already parted like a blooming flower dripping nectar.
He slapped one cheek. The flesh quivered for days. Isolde moaned, pushing back.
"Beg, Duchess."
"Please, my lord—wreck this widowed hole. Stuff me until I leak for weeks."
He freed his cock, still half-hard from fucking Seraphine an hour ago, and painted her crack with the leftover spend. Then he notched at her entrance and drove in.
Isolde screamed into the night. Her cunt was hotter than forge-fire, looser than Seraphine's yet somehow tighter in waves, rippling around him like a fist lined with velvet. He bottomed out against her womb, balls snug against her swollen clit.
"Gods, you're huge," she sobbed. "I feel you in my throat."
He set a punishing rhythm, hips crashing into that monstrous ass. Each thrust sent ripples across the flesh; her cheeks clapped louder than the fountain nearby. Milk sprayed from her dangling tits in rhythmic bursts, pattering onto the marble like summer rain.
Alaric reached forward, seizing both nipple rings. He pulled—hard. Isolde's entire body convulsed, cunt spasming so violently she squirted down his balls in hot gushes.
"Again," he growled, twisting the rings.
She came a second time instantly, screaming his name loud enough to wake the dead. Somewhere in the castle, Seraphine would hear and touch herself through her plug, knowing another sister joined the fold.
Alaric wasn't finished. He pulled out with a wet slurp, aimed higher, and pressed his cockhead against her puckered rosebud. Isolde froze.
"No man has ever—"
"Good."
He pushed. The ring gave way with a pop, swallowing him in molten tightness. Isolde's eyes rolled back; drool spilled from her open mouth. He sodomized her slowly at first, savoring the way her ass cheeks trembled, then faster, until the garden echoed with the obscene squelch of her ruined holes.
When he came, it was with a roar that scattered night birds. He flooded her bowels, pumping until thick rivers of seed ran down her thighs, mixing with her own juices into a filthy cream.
He left her draped over the balustrade, skirts around her waist, both holes gaping and leaking, silver rings glinting in the moonlight. A thin golden chain now connected her nipple piercings to a new addition: a tiny bell that chimed when she breathed.
Before dawn, Alaric led her by that chain through the corridors. Servants gaped as the proud Duchess crawled naked save for the bells, milk dripping from her swinging udders, ass swaying like a bell tower in an earthquake.
In his solar, Seraphine waited on all fours, jade plug still in place. The two widows locked eyes—recognition, jealousy, lust. Alaric smiled.
"Kneel side by side, pets. Tonight you learn to share."
By morning, the solar stank of milk, cum, and broken nobility. Two duchesses lay tangled in furs, bellies swollen with his seed, tongues lazily cleaning each other while they waited for his cock to rise again.
Two down.
Three still to claim.
The great hall had been emptied of servants, doors barred, windows shuttered. Only torchlight and the low moan of wind through arrow-slits remained.
Alaric stood at the head of the table like a dark god, naked save for the silver collar keys dangling between his pecs. Around him, five widowed duchesses knelt in a perfect circle on the rush-strewn floor, every inch of proud flesh bared and gleaming with oil and earlier spend.
- Seraphine (first conquest), milk still dripping in thin rivulets from nipples stretched raw by hours of sucking.
- Isolde (second), silver nipple-rings connected by a golden chain that chimed with every shuddering breath.
- Baroness Morgause (third), forty-eight, red-haired, tits like siege weapons, cunt pierced with a ruby that glinted when she crawled.
- Countess Ygraine (fourth), ebony-skinned, ass so impossibly round it cast its own shadow, womb tattooed with her late husband's crest (soon to be crossed out in cum).
- Archduchess Rowena (fifth and final), fifty summers, silver-haired, the oldest and the wettest; her pussy had gushed the moment Alaric ordered her to strip, leaving a puddle servants would whisper about for years.
Five ruined crowns. Five leaking, desperate milfs. One cock to rule them all.
Alaric snapped his fingers.
"Present."
They moved as one, turning, bending, spreading. Five massive asses rose like moons in eclipse, five cunts dripping in a perfect pentagon of depravity. Juices ran in thick ropes from every hole; the floor beneath them was already slick.
He started with Seraphine. Gripping her hips, he slammed home in a single thrust. She screamed, milk spraying from both tits in perfect arcs. He fucked her for ten savage strokes, then pulled out (glistening with her cream) and moved to Isolde. Her pierced cunt swallowed him with a wet squelch, the golden chain rattling as he pounded her into the table's edge.
One by one he claimed them, never spending, just marking:
Morgause's ruby piercing clacking against his shaft with every thrust.
Ygraine's tattooed womb battered until the ink seemed to blur.
Rowena (sweet gods, Rowena), her silver bush soaked, cunt so experienced it milked him like a velvet fist while she sobbed prayers in three dead languages.
When he returned to Seraphine, his cock was a shining battering ram of five different widows' juices. The circle tightened. They pressed together, tits squashing, mouths seeking mouths, tongues lapping spilled milk and pussy nectar from each other's chins.
Alaric roared, "TOGETHER."
He pushed them into a pile (a writhing mountain of matronly flesh). Seraphine on her back, legs spread wide. Isolde straddling her face, fat ass smothering the younger widow while feeding her pierced tits into Seraphine's hungry mouth. Morgause and Ygraine on either side, rubbing swollen clits against Seraphine's thighs. Rowena (eldest, greediest) knelt between Seraphine's legs, holding her cunt open like an offering.
Alaric drove into Seraphine so hard the table creaked. Rowena leaned forward, licking his shaft and Seraphine's clit in the same stroke, silver hair dragging through the mess. Every thrust pushed Seraphine's g-spot against Rowena's tongue; every withdrawal left his cock glistening for Rowena to slurp clean.
The chain reaction began.
Seraphine came first, screaming into Isolde's ass, squirting so hard it splashed Rowena's face. Isolde followed, milk gushing like twin fountains as Seraphine's tongue found her back hole. Morgause and Ygraine ground against trembling thighs, orgasms rippling through them in waves, pussies farting and squirting in unison.
Alaric pulled out, cock purple and angry, veins like ropes.
"On your knees. All of you. Mouths open."
They scrambled, kneeling in a tight semicircle, faces upturned, tongues lolling like dogs in heat. Tits pressed together into one continuous landscape of flesh (milk leaking, piercings glinting, nipples rubbing nipples).
He stroked once, twice.
The first rope hit Rowena square on the tongue (thick as cream, endless). He turned, painting Isolde's silver rings until they dripped white. Morgause's ruby piercing caught a spurt that hung like a pearl. Ygraine opened wide and caught three heavy pulses straight down her throat, swallowing with obscene gulps. Seraphine (his first, his favorite) received the final torrent across her face and tits until she looked glazed like a winter cake.
But he wasn't finished.
Still hard (impossibly hard), he pushed them onto their backs in a star pattern, legs intertwined, cunts touching cunts. He moved from hole to hole, fucking each for exactly thirty seconds, counting aloud. Every switch drew a fresh scream, a new squirt, another broken sob of "More, my lord, PLEASE."
When the thirty minutes ended, the floor was a lake. Five duchesses lay twitching, holes gaping, bellies bloated with cum that sloshed when they breathed. Milk pooled beneath them in shallow puddles. The air stank of sex so thick it could be bottled.
Alaric stood over his conquered harem, cock finally softening, dripping the last pearls onto Rowena's tongue.
"Listen well," he said, voice calm as winter steel.
"From this night forward, you are no longer duchesses. You are my breeding sows. My milk-sluts. My personal cum-dumps. Your titles, your lands, your wombs (all mine)."
Five heads nodded frantically, eyes glazed with devotion.
He smiled, slow and cruel.
"Good girls. Now clean each other up with your tongues. I want every drop inside someone by dawn."
As the widows fell upon one another (lapping, sucking, fingering cum back into leaking holes), Alaric walked to the high balcony overlooking the great hall. Below, the puddle reflected torchlight like a dark mirror.
Somewhere in the distance, church bells tolled midnight.
He inhaled the scent of total victory.
Five crowns broken.
A duchy to rule.
And an entire kingdom of neglected noble wives waiting beyond these walls…
Word of Alaric's depraved court spread faster than wildfire through dry wheat.
By the time the royal carriage rolled into Castle Velmont's courtyard (black lacquer, gold crest, six white stallions), every servant knew what awaited inside. They still bowed low as Queen Dowager Lysandra descended the steps.
Fifty-two.
Still breathtaking.
The most powerful widow in the realm.
Her gown was royal purple, cut so low her legendary breasts (each larger than a tournament shield) threatened to topple her with every breath. A diamond choker hid the faint stretch marks on her neck, but nothing could hide the way her hips swayed like a warship under full sail. Rumors claimed she hadn't been properly fucked since the old king died fifteen years ago. Her cunt, they whispered, wept nightly into silk sheets worth more than most duchies.
Alaric greeted her in the throne room (his father's old seat, now his). The five broken duchesses knelt naked at his feet, collared in gold, tits leaking in slow unison onto the marble. The puddle had become permanent; servants no longer bothered mopping.
Lysandra's eyes widened, then narrowed with something between fury and hunger.
"Nephew," she said coolly (technically true through some cousin-marriage). "You keep your pets… boldly."
Alaric rose, cock already straining his breeches. "Aunt. You kept the realm running on sighs and unspent seed for fifteen years. Time to pay the debt."
He snapped his fingers. The five widows crawled forward as one, surrounding the queen like wolves. Seraphine and Isolde took her arms. Morgause and Ygraine knelt to lift the royal skirts. Rowena (eldest, boldest) pressed her face between Lysandra's thighs and inhaled like a sommelier.
"Gods," Rowena moaned. "She's flooded. The scent alone could knock out a warhorse."
Lysandra tried to step back; her legs betrayed her, trembling. "I am your queen—"
"Not tonight," Alaric said, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat of his cock through velvet. "Tonight you're just another neglected milf with tits too big for her crown and a cunt that hasn't been stretched since my uncle croaked."
He kissed her (hard, claiming). She resisted for three heartbeats, then melted, tongue sliding into his mouth with a starving whimper. Her hands clutched his shoulders like a drowning woman.
The widows stripped her with practiced cruelty. Gown torn, corset ripped, diamonds scattered like hail. When the last layer fell, the throne room went silent.
Lysandra's body was obscene perfection: breasts like overripe pumpkins, veined and heavy, nipples thick as wine corks already leaking milk in nervous beads. Her belly bore silver stretch marks that only made Alaric's cock throb harder. And her ass (gods, her ass) was a royal monument, two pale globes so massive they parted on their own to reveal a pussy that hadn't seen cock in a decade and a half. The lips were swollen, dark, glistening, dripping in long silver threads that pooled at her feet.
Alaric pushed her onto the throne (her husband's throne). The widows held her legs spread wide, ankles bound to the armrests with golden cords. Her cunt opened like a blooming rose, inner lips fluttering, clit swollen to the size of a grape.
"Watch," Alaric told the five. "Watch how a queen breaks."
He dropped to his knees and buried his face in royal pussy.
Lysandra screamed. The sound echoed off vaulted ceilings as his tongue speared deep, lapping fifteen years of pent-up nectar. She tasted like power and desperation (sweet, salty, addictive). He sucked her clit until her hips bucked so hard the throne creaked. Milk sprayed from her tits in forceful jets, splattering the widows' faces.
When he stood, his chin dripped like he'd bathed in her. Cock out, angry and veined, he rubbed the head through her folds.
"Beg, Your Majesty."
Lysandra's pride shattered. "Please—nephew—my king—fuck your aunt's royal cunt—breed me—ruin me—"
He slammed home.
The throne room exploded with sound: Lysandra's howl, the widows' cheers, the wet slap of royal flesh meeting depraved heir. He fucked her like he was claiming the kingdom itself (deep, punishing strokes that rearranged her insides). Each thrust pushed milk from her tits in rhythmic fountains; each withdrawal left her cunt gaping and clutching for more.
The widows joined in. Seraphine and Isolde latched onto her nipples, sucking greedily. Morgause straddled the throne's arm, grinding her pierced cunt against Lysandra's hand. Ygraine and Rowena took turns licking where cock met royal pussy, tongues flicking clit and balls in perfect rhythm.
Lysandra came within minutes (a violent, full-body seizure that squirted across Alaric's abs in hot waves). She came again when he spun her around, bending her over the throne to take her from behind, massive ass rippling with every thrust. A third time when he pulled out and painted her royal back with the first load (thick ropes that ran down her crack like molten pearl).
But he wasn't done.
He sat on the throne (his throne now) and pulled Lysandra onto his lap, facing away. Her cunt swallowed him again, deeper this time, womb kissing his cockhead. The widows formed a circle around them, fingering each other while chanting his name.
Alaric gripped her hips and bounced her like a ragdoll. Her ass clapped against his thighs so loudly it drowned out the crackling torches. Milk sprayed in wild arcs, hitting the far walls. When she came a fourth time, her squirt shot three feet across the marble.
He stood, still impaling her, and walked (Lysandra bouncing on his cock like a living trophy) to the center of the hall. There he laid her on her back in the permanent puddle of milk and cum. The five widows pinned her limbs spread-eagle.
Alaric straddled her chest, sliding his cunt-soaked cock between her legendary tits. The widows pressed the heavy flesh together, creating a tunnel of warm, milk-slick heaven. He fucked her tits until the head of his cock poked out to slap her chin.
"Open," he growled.
Lysandra obeyed, tongue lolling. He fed her his cock straight from her own cunt, making her taste fifteen years of denial. She sucked like a woman possessed, gagging, drooling, eyes rolling white.
When he came, it was biblical. The first spurt filled her mouth until it overflowed. He pulled back, painting her face, her tits, her belly (marking every inch of royal skin). The widows dove in instantly, licking her clean, feeding her his spend from their tongues until her belly bulged slightly with the sheer volume.
Hours later, dawn found Queen Lysandra kneeling at Alaric's feet beside her five sisters, a new collar around her neck (this one platinum, engraved with his crest). Her crown lay discarded in the puddle, bobbing gently in milk and cum.
Alaric stroked her hair as she lazily licked his balls clean.
"Six crowns," he murmured. "The realm is mine."
Outside, the kingdom woke to a new reality.
Inside, the harem grew.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, princesses and empresses began to dream wet, traitorous dream
Far beyond Eldrath's borders, in seven royal bedchambers across the continent, the same dream struck at the same midnight hour.
They woke gasping, thighs clenched, sheets soaked through.
**Princess Amabel of Valisar** (nineteen, golden curls, untouched by any man) dreamed she knelt naked in Velmont's great hall while Alaric's harem of crowned milfs held her down. The queen herself (her own aunt Lysandra) spread Amabel's virgin lips with trembling fingers and guided Alaric's monstrous cock inside. When he breached her maidenhead, Amabel screamed in ecstasy, squirting so hard the marble cracked beneath her. She woke with her first orgasm ever, fingers buried knuckle-deep, royal blood and juices staining the silk.
**Princess Celestine of Highreach** (twenty-one, ice-blonde, secretly betrothed to a prince she loathed) saw herself riding Alaric reverse-cowgirl on the Highreach throne while her father's corpse sat bound in the corner, forced to watch. Each bounce made her small breasts leak milk she'd never borne; Alaric's hands milked her like a cow while the widowed duchesses chanted "Traitor Princess" in rhythm with her ass-claps. She woke grinding against her pillow, the word "traitor" still echoing as she came untouched.
**Princess Sereda of Dornogard** (eighteen, raven-haired, raised in a convent) dreamed the most blasphemous vision: Alaric fucking her against the high altar of the Seven Gods while the entire harem formed a daisy-chain of tongues from her clit to the queen's asshole. When he filled her womb, golden light poured from her cunt and the statues wept milk. She woke on her knees in the dormitory, habit soaked, praying forgiveness with one hand while the other rubbed furious circles until she squirted through her fingers and fainted.
**Princess Maelis of Stormsend** (twenty-three, freckled, warrior-trained) dreamed she led an army to slay the "depraved duke," only to drop her sword the moment Alaric stepped naked from the gates. Her armor melted away; her soldiers (all women) fell to their knees beside her. Alaric took her on the battlefield, cunt and ass in alternating strokes while arrows rained uselessly around them. She came so hard her war-cry turned into a moan that shattered shields. She woke astride her warhorse in the stables, grinding against the saddle until the leather was ruined.
**Princess Liora of Silvermere** (twenty, ebony-skinned like Countess Ygraine, famous for her shyness) dreamed she was presented to Alaric gift-wrapped in silver chains. The widowed queens took turns stretching her holes with jade plugs until she begged in three languages for the real thing. When Alaric finally entered her, every thrust pushed another squirt that spelled his name across the floor in shining letters. She woke with her ladies-in-waiting staring; she'd squirted straight through her nightgown and across the room, hitting the far wall.
**Princess Viviane of Brightwater** (twenty-two, redhead, already married to a duke twice her age who couldn't rise) dreamed her useless husband watched from a corner while Alaric fucked her fertile womb full on their marriage bed. Each thrust pushed her husband's tiny prick deeper into pathetic softness. When Alaric bred her, Viviane's belly swelled instantly, breasts ballooning with milk that sprayed in perfect arcs over her weeping spouse. She woke actually lactating (thin streams soaking her chemise) while her husband snored obliviously beside her.
**Princess Zoraya of Sunspyre** (nineteen, olive-skinned desert beauty, promised to a foreign emperor) dreamed the most prophetic: she saw all seven princesses arriving at Castle Velmont in a grand procession, veils torn away one by one, revealed as dripping, desperate virgins and wives. Alaric sat on a throne made of the widowed queens' intertwined bodies. One by one he claimed them, turning royal blood into royal cum-sluts while the entire continent watched through magic mirrors. When her turn came, Zoraya spread herself willingly, begging in her native tongue: "Ana lastu 'adhra'… ana milfuk." (I am no virgin… I am your milf.)
She woke speaking those words aloud, fingers buried in her cunt, squirting so hard the silk canopy above dripped like rain.
By dawn, seven ravens carried seven letters sealed with royal crests.
Each contained the same trembling script:
"I dream of you every night.
Take me before I marry another.
Make me the eighth crown in your milk-soaked harem."
Alaric read them all while six widowed queens knelt around him, taking turns warming his cock with their throats. Queen Lysandra herself licked the wax seals clean, eyes shining with proud tears.
Seven princesses.
Seven fresh wombs.
Seven new toys to break.
He smiled, stroking Lysandra's hair as she gagged happily.
"Prepare the dungeon bridal suite," he commanded. "The princesses come willingly."
Outside, winter snow began to fall.
Inside, seven dreams were about to become seven screaming, squirting realities.
The conquest had only begun to spread.
The first carriage rolled through Velmont's gates at dusk, wheels crunching over fresh snow.
Princess Zoraya of Sunspyre stepped out alone, veil already discarded, desert silks clinging to sweat-damp curves. Her dark eyes found Alaric waiting atop the steps and never left him. Behind her, six more royal crests gleamed on black-lacquered doors.
They had all come the same night.
No chaperones.
No guards.
Only seven trembling, dripping princesses who had ridden through blizzards with thighs clenched around soaked saddle horns.
Alaric wore nothing but a crimson cloak and the platinum collar key that now dangled between his pecs like a royal seal. The six widowed queens knelt naked in the snow on either side of the grand staircase, tits leaking warm milk that steamed on the frozen stone. Their breath rose in white clouds as they chanted in low, hungry unison:
"Welcome, little sisters…
Welcome to the breaking."
One by one the princesses descended.
Amabel first, golden curls wild, nightgown plastered to her body, nipples poking like diamonds.
Celestine next, ice-blonde hair unbound, a dark wet streak visible down her white stockings.
Sereda, still clutching torn rosary beads, habit soaked through at the crotch.
Maelis, armor half-unbuckled, sword left in the carriage, thighs glistening.
Liora, silver chains already locked around her own wrists as if she'd bound herself for him.
Viviane, milk leaking freely down her freckled chest, wedding ring glinting on the hand buried between her legs.
Zoraya last, barefoot in the snow, desert robes open to reveal a golden belly chain that spelled ALARIC in tiny letters across her shaved mound.
They knelt in perfect silence, snowflakes melting on burning skin.
Alaric spoke once.
"Strip. Crawl. Beg."
Seven sets of royal garments hit the snow in a rainbow of silk and velvet. Seven princesses dropped to hands and knees, crawling up the grand staircase through the steaming milk-puddles left by their new mothers. Every movement made their virgin or neglected cunts drip fresh trails behind them.
At the top, the widowed queens rose as one. Queen Lysandra herself took Zoraya's chin, forcing eye contact.
"You wrote the words in your own tongue, little desert flower. Say them again."
Zoraya's voice cracked with need: "Ana lastu 'adhra'… ana milfuk."
Lysandra smiled like a wolf. "Good girl."
They were led (crawling) through torchlit corridors into the newly christened Bridal Dungeon: a cavernous chamber beneath the great hall, once a wine cellar, now fitted with fur-covered altars, golden chains, and mirrored walls that reflected every angle of depravity.
The seven princesses were arranged in a circle on their backs, legs spread and locked into stirrups that forced their knees to their ears. Their cunts faced inward like seven blooming flowers, each one unique:
- Amabel: pink, untouched, already fluttering.
- Celestine: pale and puffy, clit pierced with an ice-blue gem she'd done herself on the ride.
- Sereda: dark curls soaked, rosary beads now stuffed inside her, only the cross dangling out.
- Maelis: warrior muscles flexing, cunt lips thick and battle-scarred from saddle friction.
- Liora: ebony folds glistening, silver chains connected from nipples to clit.
- Viviane: freckled mound leaking milk in thin streams, wedding ring pushed inside her as a plug.
- Zoraya: golden belly chain framing a desert-rose cunt already gaping from the jade toy she'd ridden for three days straight.
The widowed queens took their places between the princesses' thighs, tongues ready.
Alaric walked the circle slowly, cock swinging heavy and half-hard, trailing pre-cum like a royal scepter.
He stopped at Amabel first. The golden virgin whimpered as he rubbed his cockhead through her slick folds.
"Tell me what you dreamed, princess."
"That you'd split me on this cock while my aunt held me open," she sobbed.
Lysandra laughed, moving to spread Amabel's lips wide. "Like this, niece?"
Alaric thrust.
Amabel screamed as her maidenhead tore, blood and juices mixing in a hot gush. He buried himself to the hilt in one stroke, then pulled out glistening red and moved to Celestine.
Again and again he claimed them, never spending, just breaking:
Celestine's piercing clacking against his shaft as she squirted ice-cold across the circle.
Sereda's rosary beads sucked inside with every thrust, the cross dragging over her clit until she spoke in tongues.
Maelis roaring like a warhorn when he took her ass first, warrior cunt untouched for later.
Liora's chains singing as he pulled her nipples until milk sprayed from breasts that had never borne children.
Viviane begging him to push her wedding ring deeper while he flooded her womb.
Zoraya last, desert eyes rolling white as he spoke her language back to her, filthy promises in Sunspyre dialect while breeding her raw.
When the circle was complete, every princess lay ruined, cunts gaping, snow-white spend already leaking from freshly claimed holes.
Alaric stood in the center, cock purple and angry, finally ready to finish.
"Queens," he commanded. "Prepare the baptism."
The six widowed queens lifted the princesses into a living pyramid:
Zoraya at the base on all fours.
Viviane and Liora stacked above her, cunts dripping downward.
Maelis and Sereda higher still, milk and squirt raining like waterfalls.
Celestine and Amabel at the pinnacle, locked in a sixty-nine, tongues buried in each other while their asses pointed skyward.
Alaric climbed the pyramid of royal flesh, cock sliding through every layer, tasting every princess on his way up. When he reached the top, he pulled out of Amabel's throat and roared.
The eruption was volcanic.
He painted them from crown to base in thick, endless ropes (face, tits, bellies, cunts, every inch of seven princesses and six queens glistening white). The widows opened their mouths to catch what dripped down, swallowing greedily, then licked upward to feed it to the princesses above.
By the time the last drop fell, the pyramid collapsed into a moaning, kissing, licking heap of royal bodies, thirteen women tangled in fur and cum and milk, tasting each other with reverent tongues.
Alaric stood over his completed harem (six broken crowns and seven fresh ones), chest heaving.
Outside, the blizzard raged.
Inside, the dungeon echoed with thirteen voices chanting the same words:
"Master… breed us… forever…"
He smiled into the dark.
Tomorrow, the empress would receive her invitation.
The continent would fall, one dripping royal cunt at a time.