by Loki Renard
It was not a concern the king himself shared.
King Archon hid a yawn behind a massive scarred palm.
“Which of the maidens captures your eye, my king?” Brimsley, an old courtier, head of household, keeper of the king’s chamber, and many more titles besides, leaned in toward Archon, his frail personage the complete antithesis of the massive king who made the traditional throne creak whenever he took it. It had been reinforced several times by the throne makers, but Archon grew more massive with every battle victory, adding fresh muscle and new bone every time he was injured. He had grown to almost nine feet according to the royal tailors, who despaired of clothing their monarch who rarely bothered to wear clothes anyway. It was all they could do to get him into pants, never mind a shirt.
Archon was a brute king. A bastard king. A king without diplomatic interest, or culture, or education, but possessing more wit and intellect than the entire court put together. He was also universally considered incredibly handsome.
There was a notable gold and red scaling over his shoulders and chest. It also ran over the back of his neck, and over the bicep areas of his arms, emphasizing all the most powerful parts of the king. Scaling was considered to be the mark of a very powerful king in the realm of Archaeus over which he ruled.
His face was particularly striking, notable for its relative simplicity. He walked among aliens with all manner of horns and swirls, big dark eyes and long sharp fangs, and still managed to stand out among them because his visage was strong, a smattering of scale over his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, his pupils vertically narrowed, but otherwise almost… a word whispered in the corners of his court… human.
In response to the courtier’s question, Archon’s dark brows rose a fraction, the bright blue of his gaze flaring for a moment as he allowed himself a swift and clearly disinterested glance across the dancing females.
“Not a one of them.”
“Not one of them, my liege?” Brimsley’s concern was unveiled. “Perhaps you are not in good temper. Perhaps it would be better to have them perform individually.”
“And force me to watch every single one of these tedious dancers again?”
“My liege,” Brimsley coughed, his antiquated face having been more or less stuck in an expression of perpetually enraged horror since Archon took the throne. “My liege, there are no finer females in the land. Surely one of them is worthy of being your mate?”
“I can mate anything with a wet hole,” Archon grunted in reply. "There is a pie over there which exceeds several of these candidates in desirability.”
The old attendant pursed his lips and bit back what was sure to have been a reproach. The kings of Archaeus had chosen their royal mates by the dance for as long as anybody could remember. The first dance had taken place when their species were little more than cave dwelling animals, and since then, through their dark histories, to brighter civilizations, to taking to the stars themselves, at every generational juncture, the king of Archaeus had chosen his mate from among the dancers.
Archon was not interested in history. He was not interested in dancers, either. He was interested in conquest, victory, and in that precise moment, bed. He yawned again, displaying sharp fangs and a complete disinterest in proceedings. Even the most eager and excited of dancers could not help but be slightly cowed by the king's lack of desire.
“Sire is tired,” Brimsley said. “Sire may find himself in a better disposition tomorrow.”
“Sire would like to return to the battle front, not be called away to be begged to rut one of the daughters of the aristocracy,” Archon replied. “I have no interest in these maidens, and my patience for your customs is at an end.”
“These are your customs as much as they are ours. You are our king.”
Brimsley was taking his life in his hands by speaking to Archon that way, but as the oldest member of the royal household, he had a certain immunity, or at least acted that way. He may very well simply have been tired of life, it was impossible to tell from his dour demeanor.
Archon rose, and all the courtiers and soldiers and general hangers on rose with him. The women continued their dancing, though a few faltered nervously, thinking that he had come to a decision.
He had, though not the decision they had hoped.
All twenty four dancers watched, bereft, as the king turned his great muscular back, bare and shirtless, showing the scales over his shoulders and down the center of his back. The marks of Energon. They proved he was of royal blood, a direct descendant of the dragon king.
The more a king embodied the dragon which allegedly founded the royal line with its seed more than a thousand years earlier, the more blessed he was considered to be.
Archon was forty years old, and in those forty years he had built up a mythology about himself which made the blood of even the hottest of enemies turn to ice in their veins. His reputation for mass brutality preceded him. A gathering like this was more likely to turn bloody than culminate in celebration.
That was the reason everybody stayed silent until Archon had safely departed the chamber. The music had stopped when he stood up, in anticipation of him speaking, so Archon departed the chamber to the sound of silence punctuated by a few disappointed sobs from the dancers.
“Bastard,” a noble cursed when they were very sure he was gone, his voice swept up in the concerned clanking of cutlery and glasses as everybody rushed to finish the feast.
The dancers would not be honored with the king’s seed tonight. None of the delicate political alliances which had been hanging in the balance based on the king’s choice would be coming to fruition. By leaving without choosing a mate, Archon had thrown the kingdom of Archaeus into quiet chaos.
It did not take long for someone to take advantage of the situation. A room full of powerful nobles was trouble waiting to happen. A good king would have known better than to leave until the nobles had departed, fallen asleep, or otherwise neutralized the threat they posed. But Archon was not a good king. He was a new king, and an arrogant one.
“Girls! Bend over the tables! Noble cocks will fill your holes and offer you some respite from your arousal.” Lord Abraxus shouted.
He had no real authority to make orders, but he sensed the vacuum of power left in the king’s wake and clearly intended to capitalize on it.
The entire evening, he’d had his eye on a certain female, a dancer with four breasts and the most amazing falls of golden hair emitting from both her head and shoulders. She had made teasing eye contact with him more than once, which suggested a certain intelligence.
Abraxus was tall and blond, with a very light smattering of scaling around his eyes and across his brow. Not enough to make him look properly royal, but more than enough to distinguish himself from the rest of the common people. He was dressed in fine silk robes, all black, setting off the near white hues of his hair and skin, and he cut a rather dashing image as he crossed the room, took the dancer by the back of her neck, turned her around, and pushed her over the arm of Archon's throne.
At one time, no noble would have dared desecrate the crown that way, but there were no howls of outrage, no soldiers moving to protect the royal seat. Abraxus bent the dancer over the throne and used his third hand to spread her cheeks, revealing not one, but two perfectly presented pussies, one in line with the other.
“Oh ho ho! Two holes. I knew it!”
He loosened his pants, exposing two cocks, one atop the other.
“Nothing so delicious as mutually compatible mutations,” he chortled as both cocks twitched and throbbed inches from the dancer’s well lubricated holes. If she had any objection to being fucked publicly, she did not voice it. She arched up on her toes, the motion of her muscular behind and thighs displaying soft and supple curves to their best advantage.
The entertainment provided by the dancers was replaced by the entertainment provided by Abraxus and the thick pale rods which extended several inches from his body, thick and meaty, alrea
dy dripping with the potent seed of his noble lineage.
He transferred his grip to her hair, pulling her head back with a light, but insistent tension so all could see her face as his cocks pressed up against their matching slits, and began to penetrate. Two sets of pussy lips spread slowly around the cocks, the pale heads moving between pink flesh with an exquisite motion. Abraxus had the attention of every entity in the room, and none more so than the dancer herself, whose eyes widened as she felt herself being filled.
Abraxus pushed forward slowly and insistently, drawing the moment out. He could have been rough and brutal, but he had already made all the display of power and nerve he needed by fucking her on the throne. Slowly, and deliberately, he pushed inside the dancer, breaking twin hymens in the process. He felt them tear underneath the pressure of his cock, a slight bit of resistance followed by a soft moan of submission.
Finally, he was buried deep inside the female of his choice, both prongs of turgid flesh engulfed by the buttery hot interior of the dancer.
“Yes, oh gods yes,” he growled, his head falling back, his mouth open in unmistakeable ecstasy. “You’re perfect.”
She was perfect. She was his first choice, and he had gotten precisely what he wanted.
His example set a chain reaction running through the party. Those who had been reluctant to defile the females set aside for the king’s pleasure, or who still respected the throne were emboldened by Abraxus’ blasphemy. They also realized that what had begun was something of a first in first served free-for-all. The dancers had come to be mated, and mated they would be.
The dancers were not what one might call reluctant. Most of them were slicked with desire already. A large number of them had taken aphrodisiacs and other substances which would give their pussies protection from the king’s rough cock, as he was known to be a forceful lover.
The nobles surged for the dancers, seizing the females they desired. There were a few shocked gasps and squeals of dissent, but they did not last long. What was happening had a life of its own. There was an energy in the room, a fate which would not be denied.
Abraxus fucked his chosen mate with firm strokes, bouncing her against the throne. The feet of the hallowed chair scraped against the floor beneath, scraping with every increasingly rough thrust. His grunts and her moans mingled with those of the others as one by one, each of the dancers found a cock lodged deep in her cunt.
Soon, the hall was filled with a chorus of similar sounds, a sibilant symphony of twenty four young women being mated as they were meant to be. The nobles who slaked their cocks that night were incurring a debt to the king they would not want to pay when the debt came due.
The dancers were mated willingly enough. No female wanted to leave that hall without a cunt full of the most potent male seed. But none of them were getting what they truly wanted. The seed being pumped inside them was not royal seed, and it did not carry the potency which came with the crown. They would bear the babies of nobles and perhaps a cocky courtier, or even a serving man who sneaked in among the sexual thrust and parry.
Parentage would be dubious, as the nobles and other males swapped the dancers among themselves. The more popular dancers were mated six or seven times, until their swollen vulvas dripped with the mixed seed of a half dozen males.
What had begun as a ritual turned into an orgy, a group mating which smelled like seed and looked like filth as bodies were pressed against the remnants of the feast, cream and jelly and trifle all going places they were never intended to go, finding crevices and cracks and coating the rampant members of drunk nobles who sprayed their seed into anything hot and tight.
The cleaners were going to be busy in the morning, when they would find nobles and insensate dancers draped naked over remnants of what would be ironically described for posterity as the chaste feast of Archon.
Meanwhile…
Relieved at having escaped what might have loosely been called festivities, Archon made for the relative peace of the tower where he had come to reside, taking the stairs two at a time.
He knew very well what the nobles and courtiers he had left behind with the dancers thought of him. He knew they were ingrates without a scrap of sense, growing fat and dull on the largesse of the kingdom.
Archon did not concern himself with their opinions. He was a natural king, even if he was born a bastard.
That was not to be mentioned, though Brimsley had been heard to mention to his fellow servants that the brutal nature of the king could be put down to the wildness of his mother, a female who was not of a good house of breeding. She had never danced before the court, never displayed her mutations and her body to those who watched the breeding ceremonies.
Archon would never have come close to the throne if not for the untimely and unfortunate deaths of his seven older brothers and their eldest sons besides. Their deaths were one of many subjects not to be discussed in Archon’s court. Some may call him a murderer and a tyrant, but they did not do it twice. They could not do it twice for having a lack of a tongue.
Most of the castle’s inhabitants had the sense to leave the king alone, save for one adviser who followed him up the stairs slowly on arthritic knees so he could shake a finger at the monarch.
“Truly? Not a singe girl chosen? Not a one spoken to, let alone sampled? This is an insult to every one of the twenty-four tribes who sent their most beautiful women to be presented before the king. There will be great offense taken. Wars could be waged.”
“Wars are always waged, and I have no interest in offense,” Archon growled. “Feelings are not a currency I choose to trade in. My mate will not come to me dancing and flirting. She will be conquered.”
“Sire complains that we have made it too easy for him,” Brimsley noted. “I could have had the girls set loose in the forest, or perhaps give each of them a shuttle and a day’s head start.”
“There is no sport in chasing those who wish to be caught.”
“So you wish to mate with a female who does not wish to mate with you. You eschew the well bred and willing for the notion of someone who will resist you?”
The old man shook with outrage and perhaps even disgust. Brimsley had served the royal house of Archaeus for as long as he had been alive. He was the son of the head maid of the old queen, she who had been dead for over fifty years, she who he regarded as being the last of the true royals.
The one who sat on the throne now horrified Brimsley. There would never have been one like him when Arasabella was queen. The royal house of Archaeus was once refined and genteel. Now, with a monster who had no respect for old customs wearing the crown, anything was possible.
“I horrify you, don’t I,” Archon smiled, not the least concerned by Brimsley’s judgement.
“Sire knows I have certain traditional opinions…”
“Yes. Sire does. But when it comes to my cock, Brimsley and where I put it, I have to want the female, and I find little appealing in one who is prepared to dance amid two dozen others in the attempt to get my attention. I will know the one I want when I see her.”
“A rather romantic notion for a monarch recently talking about taking women without their will…”
“I did not say without willingness. I said that it would be a conquest. One doesn’t stop the other from being true,” Archon replied.
Brimsley’s lips became very tight and puckered. “I confess, I do not understand you sire, not after three years. You are a very different king than your father…”
“Ah yes, my father, who chose females each and every year at the dance, and who bore sons who perished on the battle field because their flashy scales and bright fins did not do a thing for them. When I breed, it will be with a female capable of bearing me a son worthy of the throne.”
“There is a certain sense to your words, sire,” Brimsley conceded, reluctantly. “Shall I have a maid draw you an acid bath before you retire to bed?
“Yes. Why not,” Archon replied. He wanted to wash the lingering
scent of two dozen perfumes from his body. He felt as though he had been utterly soaked in the stuff. Some of it was laced with pheromones, no doubt an attempt to chemically hijack him. Those females had come to be fucked by him, and they would have done almost anything to be fucked by him.
Archon had very different tastes. His women did not come to him because they were sent. The handful of lovers he had taken in the past were those he had clashed with. They were willful women, real warriors. They may have been able to dance, but they more often wielded weapons with lyrical alacrity. Archon liked brave, bold, dangerous women, and there was not a female among the dancers who fit that description.
“Anna! A bath!” Brimsley called for the bath maid.
The last female he would see that evening came bustling in with an arm full of towels. She had gray hair and eyes which appeared sunken because of all the wrinkles around them.
Anna had worked in the flying castle almost as long as Brimsley. She’d drawn more baths than she’d had hot dinners, but unlike the old courtier, she was not slowing down. Servants were not permitted to get old and weak, they had to remain sprightly well into their later years. Anna was like a little old tank, doing her duty no matter what. She nodded at Archon and Brimsley on her way to the bathing chamber.
Archon followed her. He was tired of the company of advisors and nobles, and even more tired of Brimsley himself. The old courtier was a relic who never tired of reminding Archon of what his father, a male Archon had never known, would have done in this situation or that situation.
He wanted the power of the crown, but none of the tradition which came with it. They thought he was a brute, but Archon was going to prove much worse than a mere brute. He was going to show them that he was a renegade, a complete maverick with no allegiance to history besides a tenuous genetic link exemplified in the scaling of his body.