Chapter 210 Subduing These Royal Beauties Entirely

The relentless rhythm continued, a testament to Alaric’s seemingly inexhaustible stamina. The sun climbed high into the sky, flooding the room with the bright, unforgiving light of midday. Inside the inn room, however, time seemed warped, measured only by the slick slap of skin, the desperate moans, and the guttural commands of their self-proclaimed King.

Alaric took them again and again, his energy unwavering. He moved from Margaret’s slick heat to Josephine’s trembling core, never letting the pace slacken for long. He pushed them past exhaustion, drawing out pleasure even when they thought their bodies had nothing left to give.

He drove into Josephine with punishing force, her cries turning into breathless whimpers. Her body, usually vibrant, was now almost limp beneath him, responding purely on instinct and the overwhelming sensations he forced upon her.

“King… please… no more…” she sobbed, the words barely audible. “I can’t… I can’t take anymore…”

Alaric merely grunted, pulling her hips tighter against him, his thrusts finding an even deeper angle. “Your King decides when you’ve had enough, Consort.” He bit her shoulder, a sharp nip that made her gasp, reminding her who was in charge.

He felt her climax again, a weak, fluttering spasm compared to the violent convulsions of the night before. It was the pleasure of utter depletion.

He pulled out and turned his attention to Margaret, who lay sprawled on her stomach, her face buried in the pillows, her breathing shallow. He nudged her thigh with his knee. “Queen Margaret. On your knees for your King.”

With trembling arms, she tried to push herself up, but her muscles screamed in protest. She managed a shaky kneeling position, her head bowed, strands of sweat-dampened hair clinging to her face and neck. Her body was a canvas of red marks, love bites, and the faint bruising from his possessive grip.

Alaric positioned himself behind her, his erection still impossibly hard against her buttocks. ‘Just a little more,’ he thought, relishing the sight of her utter submission. ‘Break them completely.’

He entered her slowly this time, savoring the way her abused flesh still clenched around him. He moved with deliberate, grinding thrusts, drawing out the sensation, watching her knuckles turn white as she gripped the sheets.

“Look at me, Margaret,” he commanded softly.

She lifted her head, tears streaming down her face, mingling with sweat. Her eyes were unfocused, lost in a haze of sensation and exhaustion.

“Who am I?” he demanded, his hands cupping her heavy, marked breasts, squeezing gently.

“You… you are… my King…” she choked out.

“And what are you?”

“I… I am… your Queen… your slut…” The words tumbled out, ingrained by hours of repetition and overwhelming pleasure.

He continued his rhythm, but it was clear she was fading. Her body grew heavier, less responsive. Finally, with a shuddering groan that seemed torn from the depths of her soul, she collapsed forward onto the bed, unable to support herself any longer.

Alaric thrust a few more times into her unresponsive form before withdrawing. He looked down at the two women, sprawled amidst the tangled, stained sheets. Josephine was curled on her side, barely conscious. Margaret lay face down, utterly spent.

He felt a surge of triumph. They were broken, completely drained, their bodies pushed far beyond their limits. They had lasted impressively long, a testament perhaps to their royal stamina or the sheer addictive power of the pleasure he’d provided, but even they had their breaking point. And he had found it.

‘Finally,’ Alaric thought, a sigh escaping his lips – not of exhaustion, but of satisfaction. He felt energized, his magical reserves barely touched, his physical prowess still formidable. But the goal wasn’t just physical depletion; it was complete subjugation. He had achieved that.

He moved off the bed, stretching his powerful frame. He walked naked to the washbasin in the corner, splashing cool water on his face and chest. He glanced back at the bed. The evidence of their debauchery was everywhere – the rumpled sheets, the scent of sex heavy in the air, the two royal women lying utterly vulnerable and marked by his possession.

He dried himself slowly, then pulled on his trousers, leaving his chest bare. He walked back to the bed and gently gathered the two women into his arms, pulling them close against his body. Their skin was hot, slick with sweat, and exquisitely sensitive. He settled back against the headboard, Margaret’s head lolling onto one shoulder, Josephine’s resting against his chest.

For several long moments, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant noises from the inn below. The adrenaline was fading, the mind-numbing intensity of constant orgasm receding like a tide. And in its wake, reality began to seep back in.

Margaret stirred first, a soft groan escaping her lips. She blinked, her eyes slowly focusing on the ceiling, then darting around the unfamiliar room. Her gaze fell on Josephine, nestled against Alaric’s other side, then travelled up to Alaric’s face. The memories of the night, and the morning, crashed down upon her.

Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh… gods…” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She tried to pull away, a sudden wave of shame washing over her, but Alaric’s arm tightened possessively around her waist.

Josephine woke moments later, her reaction mirroring the Queen’s. A gasp, wide eyes, a sudden, visceral understanding of what had transpired. She stared at the marks on Margaret’s shoulder, then instinctively touched her own neck, feeling the faint sting of his bite marks.

“What… what have we done?” Josephine breathed, her voice trembling. She looked at Margaret, her expression filled with fear and disbelief.

The comfortable silence was shattered, replaced by a heavy tension. The sheer pleasure that had consumed them for hours now felt like a dangerous, intoxicating poison.

“This… this is…” Margaret struggled for words, her face pale beneath the flush of exertion. “Scandalous… Treasonous…”

“If anyone finds out…” Josephine trailed off, her imagination painting terrifying pictures. Servants whispering, nobles gossiping, the entire kingdom learning that their Queen and Royal Consort had spent the night and half the day in debauchery with a strange mage.

“Thaleon…” Margaret whispered the name like a curse. “When the King returns… if he learns…” The fear in her eyes was palpable. King Thaleon wasn’t known for his mercy, especially when it came to his pride and his possessions – which included his wife and his consort.

Alaric listened, his expression calm, almost amused. He stroked Margaret’s hair soothingly, though his touch remained possessive. His other hand idly traced the curve of Josephine’s hip.

‘Here it comes,’ he thought. ‘The inevitable panic. Predictable.’

“Easy now, my ladies,” Alaric said, his voice a low, calming rumble. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Margaret’s temple. “There’s no need for such distress.”

His casual dismissal of their fears only seemed to heighten their anxiety.

“No need?” Margaret hissed, trying again to pull away, though his grip was gentle but firm. “Do you understand what would happen? He would have us executed! Or worse!”

“He might spare us death,” Josephine added, shivering despite the warmth of Alaric’s body, “but we would be disgraced, locked away… forgotten.” The reality of their precarious situation hit them with full force. They were royalty, but their positions depended entirely on the King’s favor and their perceived purity.

Alaric tightened his hold slightly, pulling them closer. His hand slid down Margaret’s back, kneading the sore muscles possessively. “You worry about a ghost,” he murmured.

Both women looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?” Margaret asked.

Alaric met their gazes, his ruby eyes serious, though a flicker of calculation lurked within them. “You fear King Thaleon’s return?” He paused for effect. “You needn’t. The King will not be returning from the Demon Fortress.”

A stunned silence filled the room.

“What… what are you saying?” Josephine stammered.

Alaric shifted, allowing his hand to cup Margaret’s breast, his thumb teasing the nipple he had abused throughout the night. She gasped and instinctively arched into his touch, a conditioned response overriding her fear for a moment.

“I was there, remember?” Alaric said smoothly, his fingers continuing their ministrations. “Before I… rescued… you both.” He let that hang in the air. “The battle was not going well for the forces of Eloriath. Not well at all.”

He leaned towards Josephine, his lips brushing her ear as his other hand slid down her belly, fingers dancing dangerously close to the apex of her thighs. She shivered violently, her breath catching.

“The demons… they were overwhelming the human forces,” he whispered, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. “Their numbers, their power… King Thaleon was leading the charge, foolishly brave, right into the heart of their ranks.”

He pulled back slightly, looking from one pale face to the other. “The fortress walls were breached in several places when I departed. The demons were pouring through. Thaleon and his personal guard were surrounded, cut off.” He shook his head with feigned solemnity. “There’s no realistic chance he could have escaped that cauldron. He’s dead. Sacrificed for his kingdom, no doubt.”

He delivered the news coolly, clinically, while his hands continued their intimate exploration. He pinched Margaret’s nipple gently. “Isn’t that right, my Queen?”

Margaret flinched, torn between the shocking news and the sensation. “Dead? Thaleon… dead?” The idea seemed impossible. He was the King, powerful, protected.

“You… you saw this?” Josephine asked, searching his face for any sign of deception.

Alaric met her gaze evenly. “I saw the situation. I saw the overwhelming demonic tide. I saw where the King was positioned. Unless a miracle occurred after I left – which, given the circumstances, seems highly unlikely – your husband is feeding the demonic hordes by now.”

He let the information sink in, watching their reactions closely. Relief warred with shock and a strange, unexpected grief on their faces. They hadn’t loved Thaleon, not truly, but he was their husband, their King, the center of their world for years. His sudden, violent absence was a shock to their system.

But overriding even that was the removal of the immediate threat. If Thaleon was dead… the most terrifying consequence of their actions was gone.

Alaric pressed his advantage, leaning in to kiss Josephine’s neck, right beside a fading bite mark. “So you see? No King to return. No husband to discover your… delightful indiscretions.” His hand slid lower, fingers brushing against her damp curls. She gasped and squirmed, pressing her thighs together.

“But… Master Steele…” Margaret began, the old title slipping out in her confusion and lingering shock.

Alaric’s hand instantly stopped its soothing motion on her back and delivered a sharp, stinging smack to her bare buttock.

“Ack!” Margaret cried out, startled, her eyes wide.

Alaric’s voice was low, dangerous. “Who am I, Margaret?” His eyes bored into hers.

Shame, fear, and a flicker of the arousal he had conditioned her to feel warred within her. “You… You are King Alaric,” she corrected herself quickly, dropping her gaze.

“Good girl,” he purred, resuming his stroking, adding a gentle squeeze to the flesh he’d just struck. “Don’t forget it again.”

He looked at Josephine, whose eyes were wide with apprehension. He reached across, flicking her nipple sharply. She yelped. “And you, Consort? Who commands you now?”

“King Alaric!” Josephine squeaked, her body tensing. “Only King Alaric!”

“Excellent.” He smiled, a predator’s smile. He let his gaze roam over their naked, marked bodies, still nestled against him. The fear was still there, but the primary source had been removed, leaving behind a different kind of vulnerability.

“Even if, by some impossible twist of fate,” Alaric continued, his tone hardening slightly, his hands gripping their waists firmly, “your former king did crawl back from the abyss…” He paused, letting the implication hang. “…do you truly believe I would simply let you go?”

He leaned back, forcing them to look at him. His ruby eyes burned with possessive fire. “You are mine now. Queen Margaret. Consort Josephine. Your bodies belong to me. Your pleasure belongs to me.” He punctuated his words by leaning forward and capturing Margaret’s lips in a hard, demanding kiss, then turning and doing the same to Josephine, leaving them both breathless.

“Thaleon dead or alive changes nothing,” he stated unequivocally. “You screamed my name as your King all night. You begged for my cock, my touch, my seed.” He trailed his fingers down their stomachs, making them shudder. “You offered yourselves freely. And I accepted.”

He dipped his head, licking a path from Josephine’s collarbone down to the swell of her breast, biting the peak gently. “Mmmm… still so sensitive.”

Josephine whimpered, pressing against him instinctively.

“If Thaleon returns,” Alaric continued, his voice muffled against her skin, “he will find his Queen and his Consort thoroughly claimed by their new King. And I will deal with him then.” He lifted his head, his gaze heated. “But you,” he addressed them both, “will continue to serve me. Every night. Just like this.”

He shifted, pulling Margaret more firmly against his bare chest, his hardening erection pressing against her thigh. “Your bodies remember who their master is, don’t they?”

They couldn’t deny it. Even now, exhausted and sore, his touch, his voice, his sheer presence sent illicit thrills through them. The fear of scandal was real, but the memory of the earth-shattering pleasure, the feeling of being utterly possessed and claimed, was a powerful anchor. Thaleon’s death, if true, simplified things, removing the immediate danger of execution, but it solidified their position under Alaric.

“So,” Alaric murmured, nuzzling Margaret’s neck, “no more talk of fear. No more mention of Thaleon.” His hand slid between her thighs, finding her core still slick and swollen. “Only acceptance. Only obedience.” He stroked her gently, eliciting a soft gasp. “And the pleasure your King chooses to grant you.”

Margaret closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, a single tear escaping. Josephine did the same, pressing herself closer to his side. They were trapped – by circumstance, by his power, and most insidiously, by their own bodies’ desperate craving for the pleasure only he seemed capable of providing. Their King was dead. Long live the King.

Alaric held them, feeling their surrender. Their fear hadn’t vanished, but it was being overshadowed by resignation and the undeniable physical bond he had forged. He smiled inwardly. The kingdom might mourn Thaleon, but his Queen and Consort were already adapting to their new reality, their new ruler. And he was just getting started.