Elara and Phalan.
The stone corridor echoed hollowly with hurried footsteps: from around the corner appeared Faelan, a young soldier in King Brennus's army. Sweat plastered his forehead under the leather helmet, strands of dark hair. Patrols were tedious but necessary, especially near the princess's chambers. His thoughts returned to the forbidden rumors whispered among the guards: the king's third daughter, Princess Elara, possessed a wildness suppressed by royal decree. Her betrothal loomed on the horizon, a political tool, and the law was immutable. Virginity lost before marriage meant death by strangulation in the castle dungeons, followed by dismemberment and disposal in the turbulent
Carrey River. A shiver ran through him. Such thoughts were treason.He nearly collided with a slight figure darting from a side passage. A maid, dressed in coarse, undyed wool, her head tightly wrapped in a linen coif that obscured most of her face. Her eyes, wide and startlingly green, met his for a moment before darting away. "My apologies, sir," she mumbled in a husky yet oddly refined voice.
Faelan grunted in acknowledgment, moving past. But something pricked him—the curve of her cheek beneath the rough cloth, an unnatural grace in her hurried gait. He froze, watching her disappear down a narrow stairwell leading to the rarely used storerooms near the barracks wing. Guards weren't forbidden from dallying with servants… but princesses were another matter. A dangerous suspicion flared. He knew the rumors of Elara's escapades, disguised, trying to escape her gilded cage. The thrill of the hunt warred with primal fear. Curiosity won. He silently followed her.
The storeroom was dark, smelling of dust, dried herbs, and old wood. He saw her standing among sacks of grain, her back to him, shoulders tense. As he entered, blocking the passage, she whirled around. Panic flashed in her green eyes, then was replaced by defiance. She pulled down the coif, revealing a cascade of fiery red hair and fine, aristocratic features unmistakable even in the gloom. Princess Elara.
"Leave, soldier," she commanded, her voice trembling despite its feigned authority. "You saw nothing."
Faelan's breath caught. The risk was monumental. Discovery meant death for them both—for him for defiling royalty, for her for forsaking her virginity. Yet the sight of her, vulnerable and defiant in coarse cloth, unleashed a torrent of desire he'd buried under strict control. Her disguise spoke of reckless yearning, a thirst mirroring his own restless spirit, weary of army rules. He saw not just a princess, but a woman risking everything for a taste of forbidden sensation.
"You court death, Princess," Faelan uttered, his voice low and gravelly. He locked the storeroom door behind him with a heavy *clang*. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. Her defiance wavered, replaced by a flicker of fear… and something darker, more ardent. Anticipation.
"I court freedom," Elara retorted, stepping forward with her chin raised. "Brief, stolen moments… before I am caged forever. My guards… are depressingly cautious." Her gaze slid over Faelan's lean, muscular frame, lingering on the bulge straining his trousers. "You do not look cautious."
The air crackled. Faelan closed the distance, his calloused hand gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. He saw the dangerous game reflected in her—her need for intensity, a desperate clutch at life before duty crushed her. He saw the terrifying allure of her absolute vulnerability combined with royal fire. His own restraint shattered. He could not offer caution. He could offer oblivion.
He kissed her fiercely, swallowing her gasp. Her response was instant, feral—nails scratching his neck, body arching into his. Rough hands tore at the simple maid's dress, pulling the coarse fabric from her shoulders, revealing creamy skin faintly glowing in the dusty light. He spun her around, pressing her face-first against a stack of grain sacks. Rough burlap scratched her cheek. He yanked the dress and thin undergarments down to her knees, exposing the perfect pale hemispheres of her buttocks. His thumbs dug into the tender flesh, spreading her cheeks apart, exposing the tight pink pucker of her anus.
Elara whimpered, pressing her forehead harder into the sack. Fear warred with desperate arousal. This was different. Dangerous. *Intense*. Exactly what she'd risked her life for. Thoughts of the dungeon, the rope, the river… they dissolved under a wave of sensation as Faelan spat on his fingers and then pressed one thick digit firmly against her forbidden entrance. She cried out, a sharp gasp of shock and acute pleasure.
The saliva-slicked finger breached her resistance sharply, burningly tight. Elara gasped, her body instinctively tensing at the crude violation. Yet a wilder instinct made her push back, grind against his hand, craving *more* of the forbidden sensation. Faelan watched a wave of conflicting emotions cross her face—fleeting panic drowned in a deepening flush and dilated pupils. He added a second finger, stretching the tight ring ruthlessly, relishing her choked sob mixed with a guttural moan. Her hips jerked involuntarily.
"Such a greedy hole, Princess," Faelan growled, his own arousal throbbing painfully against her hip. He withdrew his fingers, leaving her clenching around emptiness. The rough sound of unlaced breeches filled the dusty air. He spat into his palm again, generously slicking his swollen cock. The thick, veined shaft, darkened and gleaming, pressed firmly against her quivering entrance. Elara braced against the sacks, knuckles white, breathing ragged. Thoughts of the strangler's rope flared—cold, rough hemp biting into her neck—but were erased by the sheer *presence* of him, the promise of annihilation.
"Give it to me," she demanded, her voice full of want and defiance. "Hard. Now."
He needed no further invitation. With a grunt born of unchecked need and reckless passion, Faelan drove his hips forward. The broad crown breached her clenched muscles in one brutal thrust. Elara screamed, the raw, tearing sound muffled by the grain sacks. It was not just pain; it was a lightning bolt of sensation, ripping her apart, a violation so profound it bared her soul. She felt unbearably full, stretched to the limit, a burning ache deep inside. Tears welled in her eyes, mixing with the dust on her cheek.
He began to move. Short, savage thrusts at first, each one drawing a ragged cry from Elara, each withdrawal making her clench around him desperately. Gradually, the rhythm deepened, lengthened. The burning ache, though not gone, began to transform. Layer by layer, it morphed into something else: a deep, scraping friction, scratching nerves she didn't know existed. Pressure built low in her belly, intense and undeniable. Faelan gripped her hips so hard they would bruise, holding her steady as he pistoned into her tight channel. The slap of skin on skin, his groans, her muffled gasps echoed in the storeroom. He watched her ass ripple with each thrust, a mesmerizing rhythm of pale flesh yielding to his force.
Elara's cries changed. Less pain, more desperation. The ring inside her clenched tighter, fueled by the relentless pounding, the absolute *wrongness* of it, the dizzying danger. Her fingers clawed at the rough burlap. Her body betrayed her composure, sweating, trembling, desperately pushing back onto his cock, seeking that elusive spark. Fear—of discovery, of death—became a perverse aphrodisiac, heightening every sensation. She *felt* alive, truly alive, for the first time in her gilded cage.
Faelan felt her inner muscles begin to flutter and clench around him uncontrollably. His breath hitched. He drove in harder, deeper, angling his hips with each punishing thrust to grind against that hidden bundle of nerves. A guttural wail tore from Elara's throat, only partly muffled by the sacks. Her body convulsed violently, her back arching impossibly as orgasm detonated. It was not gentle; it was a seismic eruption, tearing through her core like a wildfire, blinding and brutal. Her legs buckled, only his iron grip keeping her upright as wave after wave of unbearable pleasure-pain racked her, leaving her gasping, shuddering, dripping sweat onto the packed earth floor.
The fierce clench of her orgasm drove Faelan over the edge. With a roar more beast than man, he buried himself impossibly deep and erupted. Hot, thick streams of seed flooded her deepest recesses, spurting against the walls. He held there, grinding against her spent body, riding out the savage bliss until the last tremor subsided.
Withdrawal was slow, slick. Faelan stepped back, breathing heavily, watching a thick trickle of his seed escape Princess Elara's ravaged entrance and trace a glistening path down the inside of her thigh. The sight sparked a fresh surge of possessiveness in him, mixed with cold horror at what they had just dared. Elara slumped forward, forehead pressed hard into the rough burlap, trembling, knuckles white where she gripped the sackcloth. Breath escaped in ragged gasps, punctuated by quiet, involuntary whimpers. The aftershocks of the powerful orgasm still shook her, a deep, throbbing ache mingling with the burning sting of her stretched passage. Dust motes danced in the weak light piercing the storeroom gloom, settling on her exposed skin and fiery hair. The silence stretched, thick with the musk of sex and fear.
Faelan stuffed himself back into his breeches, the rough fabric chafing his oversensitive skin. Thoughts raced feverishly. A princess. Defiled. Anally. If caught… His hand instinctively went to the dagger at his belt. Would he protect her? Kill her himself for a quicker silence? Or die beside her? The image of the strangler's rope, rough hemp biting into pale royal skin, flashed before his eyes. He lowered it. Action. Control. That's what a soldier knew.
He grabbed her shoulder, turning her roughly. Elara stumbled, legs shaky, the coarse maid's dress bunched awkwardly at her knees. Her face was flushed, tear-streaked, smudged with dust. But beneath the disheveled hair, her green eyes burned with a fierce, defiant light, brighter than before. Not regret, not yet. Triumph? Hunger? Faelan didn't hesitate. He pushed her down. Weakened from the ordeal, her knees buckled and she landed on the packed earth floor with a soft thud. She looked up at him, startled, a flash of vulnerability crossing her features. Before she could speak, Faelan fisted a hand in her tangled red hair, yanking her head back, exposing the slender column of her throat.
"You took it well, Princess," he growled, his voice hoarse with spent passion and residual adrenaline. "But I owe you nothing." With his other hand, he freed his cock again. It was beginning to soften but was still thick, slick with sweat and her own fluids. He brought the head roughly to her bruised lips, smearing the wetness across them. "Open."
Elara hesitated for a fraction of a second. The taste of his skin, musky and salty, filled her mouth as his thumb pressed insistently against her lower teeth. The humiliation was acute—kneeling on the filthy floor, defenseless, sore, forced to service the soldier who had just brutally taken her anally. Yet the danger thrilled her again. This was *real*. This was the raw edge she craved, far from court whispers and political maneuvering. She obediently opened her mouth, her tongue instinctively darting out to taste him, the action sending a fresh jolt of arousal through her spent body.
Faelan didn't wait. He pushed in to the hilt. He was not gentle. He drove deep into her mouth, past teeth, past gag reflex, burying himself fully in her throat. Elara choked, her eyes watering instantly. Her hands flew up instinctively to grip his hips, nails digging into the worn leather of his breeches. He held her head firmly, grinding against her face, filling her esophagus completely. She gasped for air around him, making muffled gagging sounds, saliva pooling at the corners of her mouth. The sensation was overwhelming—the thick intrusion, his taste mixed with the ghostly taste of his seed from moments before, the absolute dominance.
Faelan groaned, low and guttural. The tight, wet heat of her throat combined with the desperate sounds she made stoked the embers. He began to move in shallow, relentless thrusts. Elara's body shuddered with each one, tears now flowing freely, mingling with the saliva coating his cock. Her mind fractured. Fear of suffocation battled the dizzying power of submission, the perverse pleasure of being utterly used. She focused on the hard muscle under her hands, the scent of skin and sweat, the raw strength emanating from him. This was the oblivion she sought.
He felt his balls tighten treacherously. "Swallow," he rasped, his thrusts growing harder, deeper, nearing their peak. He pulled back slightly, then drove into her one last time, seating himself fully. His cock pulsed violently at her throat. A thick, hot flood shot directly down her gullet. Elara convulsed, choking as the first spurts hit, but Faelan held her firmly, forcing her to gulp down the seed.
Thick streams pulsed directly into Elara's throat. She gagged violently, eyes bulging, tears streaming as Faelan held her head to his groin, making her take every drop. Each hot jet triggered a convulsive swallow—a rough, instinctive reflex—as the salty, bittersweet flood filled her esophagus. Her throat clenched desperately, muscles constricting and releasing around the invading shaft. The sheer volume overwhelmed her; seed leaked from her nostrils and the corners of her stretched lips, dripping onto the dirty floor and the coarse wool of the maid's dress. The humiliation was searing, yet it held a terrifying thrill—with each greedy gulp, she defiled her royal purity. The taste lingered, thick and primal. *This is what freedom tastes like,* her stunned mind realized, *before oblivion*.
Finally, Faelan's cock softened. He slowly withdrew, slick and gleaming with saliva and traces of seed. Elara bent forward, coughing harshly, gulping air, fingers clutching her throat. Strands of seed clung to her chin and lips. She spat onto the earth floor, shuddering. The physical pain crashed over her in full force: the throbbing ache deep in her bowels, the rawness in her throat, the burn of her knees on the packed earth. And yet beneath the pain hummed a profound exhilaration—a fierce pride at having survived the brutality she had craved.
Faelan stepped back, moving deliberately, hiding the tremor in his hands. The adrenaline crash left him hollow, the reality of their transgression settling like a stone. He looked at her, this princess kneeling in the dirt, and at his own release smearing her face with the rough sleeve of her disguise. The challenge in her eyes hadn't dimmed; it had burned brighter, tempered in the crucible of their encounter.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through her ragged breathing. "Being fucked like a barracks whore?" He gestured pointedly at her torn dress, the smears of dust and sweat on her thighs. "Taking my seed like a common slut?"
Elara looked up, her green eyes blazing through the tear-smeared grime. She straightened, wincing at the protest of sore muscles. Deliberately slowly, she wiped her mouth again with her sleeve—a rough, pragmatic gesture that erased the last traces of his claim. Her voice, when it finally came, was hoarse but level, full of dangerous honesty.
"Every moment," she rasped. She leaned back slightly, bracing a hand on a grain sack behind her, and met his gaze unflinchingly. "The pain… gods, it burned. But it *scorched* the numbness away." Her free hand drifted involuntarily to her lower belly. "And when you filled me…" She shuddered, a deep, inhuman tremor wracking her. "It was like fire, igniting every nerve." Her gaze sharpened, fixing on him with frightening intensity. "You gave me what my timid guards would never dare. Your cock…" She paused, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, tasting the remnants. "It tore me apart. I felt *real*. Powerful." A reckless smile touched her lips. "And to swallow you? To feel you pulsing in my throat? To know I took every drop?" She tilted her head, her defiance morphing into something primal. "It tasted… divine. Thick. Bittersweet. Like swallowed lightning."
Faelan stared at her. Disbelief warred with a wild pride. He'd expected shame, remorse, perhaps terror. But not this… fierce ownership. She wasn't broken; she was forged. The danger hadn't destroyed her, it *fueled* her.
"You are mad," he breathed, stepping closer, looming over her kneeling form. "They will kill you slowly for this."
"And if I am caught?" Elara countered, straightening, swaying slightly but not breaking eye contact. The maid's dress hung awkwardly, exposing her bruised shoulder. "Who would believe *this*," she gestured at her disheveled, soiled state, "is