Chapter 296: Enjoying Archmage Priscilla’s Virgin Pussy

Alaric’s pounce was no mere clumsy lunge of a savage brute attacking the utterly naked Archmage Priscilla, whose fine robes he had so unceremoniously torn from her form moments earlier.

It was the calculated, silent, and wholly inescapable descent of a supreme predator upon its designated prey. One single, heart-stopping moment, Priscilla stood frozen in the grand doorway, her analytical mind a raging whirlwind of pure, unadulterated shock and profound disgust.

The very next, she was airborne, only to be slammed down onto the massive, fur-strewn bed. The crushing weight of his powerful, muscular body was a terrifying, suffocating reality that drove the air from her lungs.

Her formidable Archmage aura, a potent, shimmering shield of pure arcane energy that could effortlessly deflect devastating spells and shatter tempered steel, sputtered and flickered against the sheer, overwhelming pressure of his own dominant presence. It was like a single, defiant candle flame attempting to push back the unstoppable force of a hurricane.

“Get off of me, you degenerate fiend!” Priscilla snarled, her voice a low, dangerous hiss that promised retribution, a sound that had made lesser kings tremble in their boots. She struggled with all her might, her hands pushing futilely against his hard, unyielding chest, which felt like a wall of living granite.

Alaric merely chuckled, a low, dark, rumbling sound that vibrated through the bed, through her bones, and into the very core of her being. The sound was thick with amusement and absolute power.

“Fiend? Degenerate?” He leaned down, his face mere inches from hers, his piercing ruby eyes glowing with a predatory fire that seemed to see straight into her soul. “Oh, my dear Archmage, you’ll be screaming far, far sweeter names for me soon enough.”

Beside them on the vast bed, Queen Margaret and the Royal Consort Josephine, their own magnificent, voluptuous bodies a clear testament to Alaric’s earlier, vigorous attentions, giggled in unison. It was a sound so utterly devoid of their former regal composure, of the dignity they once held so dear. It was the sound of two thoroughly debauched, broken women enjoying a private, sordid spectacle.

“Oh, do try to be gentle with her at first, my magnificent King,” Margaret purred, her voice a husky, lust-filled whisper. She crawled closer on the furs, her large, heavy breasts swaying with a practiced, seductive motion that Priscilla found sickening. “She is… rather new to your particular, and very effective, brand of… education.”

“Indeed,” Josephine added, her own eyes gleaming with a disturbing mixture of detached amusement and lingering, insatiable lust. “Her pride is so very… exquisite. So fragile. It will be an absolute delight to watch it shatter into a million pieces.”

Priscilla stared at them, her mind reeling with a horrified, nauseating disbelief. Her Queen Margaret? The poised Royal Consort Josephine? Speaking like… like common, street-corner whores? What in the name of the abyss had this monster, this fiend, done to them?

“They have simply learned to accept their true nature, Priscilla,” Alaric whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. His warm breath sent a violent shiver of pure revulsion down her spine, yet it was followed by an unwelcome, treacherous thrill that made her skin tingle. “As you will, too.”

His hands, which had so easily pinned her wrists to the thick furs above her head, released their iron grip. They did not move with haste or violence. Instead, they moved with a slow, deliberate purpose. He didn’t tear away the remaining shredded remnants of her robes. He peeled them away, piece by piece, like a grand connoisseur revealing a priceless, long-hidden work of art for the first time.

His predatory gaze swept over her form, a slow, methodical, appreciative appraisal that felt more violating than any physical touch. Her body, honed by centuries of strict arcane discipline and a surprisingly rigorous physical regimen she maintained, was a true masterpiece of mature, powerful femininity.

Her breasts were full and heavy, their pale, creamy skin a stark, beautiful contrast to the dark, taut nipples that peaked instantly, hardening into tight buds under his intense, burning scrutiny.

Her waist was slender, her stomach flat and toned from years of control, flaring out dramatically to impossibly curvy hips and a magnificent, rounded backside that even now, in her terror, seemed to hold a certain defiant power. Her legs were long, shapely, and powerful—a warrior’s legs.

“Magnificent,” Alaric breathed, his voice thick with a genuine, possessive appreciation that terrified her more than any threat. “Even more magnificent than I had dared to imagine. Truly, a body worthy of an Archmage. So utterly wasted, hidden away in dusty libraries and stuffy council chambers.”

He reached out, his large, calloused hand moving with agonizing slowness before cupping one of her full, heavy breasts. Priscilla gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath as her body arched off the bed against her will. His touch was electric, a brand of pure heat and raw power that seemed to seep directly into her very core, bypassing all her defenses.

“Don’t you touch me!” she hissed, trying to twist away from the defiling contact, but he held her fast with his other hand, his grip an unbreakable manacle on her shoulder.

“Oh, but I will, my dear, sweet Priscilla,” he purred, his thumb brushing with torturous leisure against her hardened nipple, sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation flooding through her. It was a feeling so intense, so alien, that it stole her breath. “I will touch every single inch of you. I will learn your every secret, every sensitive spot. I will make this exquisite body of yours sing for me, a symphony of pleasure that will echo in this chamber.”

He moved his attention to her other breast, giving it the same tormenting, exquisite attention. He squeezed, he kneaded, his fingers and thumbs working a cruel, masterful magic that tore a whimper from her lips, her body betraying her with every soft, unwilling sound that escaped.

Margaret crawled even closer, her own magnificent breasts jiggling with the movement, her eyes glazed over. “Do you see now, Priscilla?” she whispered, her voice laced with a strange, pitying envy that made Priscilla’s skin crawl. “There is no fighting it. It’s useless. He is a god. And his touch is a divine, undeniable blessing. You must surrender to it. It is so much… easier that way.”

“Easier to be his slut, is that what you mean?” Priscilla spat, her eyes flashing with a final, desperate burst of defiant fire, her last embers of resistance flaring bright.

Josephine laughed, a low, throaty, decadent sound that was a grotesque parody of her former graceful chuckle. “Oh, but it is so very, very wonderful to be his slut, Priscilla. He will show you pleasures you never even dreamed could exist. He will make you forget your own name, your precious pride, everything but him.”

Alaric’s hands continued their slow, methodical conquest. His fingers moved lower, tracing the elegant curve of her hip, then mapping the flat, toned plane of her stomach. He was a patient, methodical conqueror, savoring every single moment of her breaking, every tremor, every gasp.

He found the soft blonde curls nestled between her thighs, his fingers brushing against them with a deceptive gentleness that made her flinch violently.

Priscilla squeezed her legs together, a final, futile act of desperate resistance, a last stand to protect her innermost sanctity.

Alaric simply chuckled again, the sound low and confident. He hooked his powerful fingers under her thighs and easily, effortlessly, parted them, exposing her completely to his burning, triumphant gaze.

She was a virgin. He could see it, sense it in the air, in the very energy of her being. The pristine, untouched flesh before him was a living testament to her centuries of unwavering dedication to her arcane art.

“A virgin,” Alaric breathed, his voice now filled with a dark, triumphant glee that chilled her to the bone. “An Archmage virgin. The ultimate prize. The former King Thaleon, that weak fool, would have killed for such a trophy. But he was weak. He hesitated. I… I do not.”

His fingers, slick with her own unwilling moisture, slipped inside her. They met the tight, unyielding resistance of her maidenhead. He pushed, gently at first, a probing exploration.

Then, with more force.

Priscilla cried out, a sharp, tearing pain lancing through her, a pain unlike any she had ever known. It was intimate and violating.

“Please… no…” she begged, her voice now a broken, ragged whisper, hot tears of pain and utter humiliation finally breaking free, streaming down her face and into her hair.

“Oh, yes,” Alaric growled, his voice a low counterpoint to her plea. He ignored her begging and added a second finger, then a third, stretching her, preparing her, destroying her innocence with a methodical, detached cruelty that was both terrifying and, in a strange, horrifying way, intensely arousing to her traitorous body.

He pulled his slick fingers out of her and positioned himself between her parted legs. He was a mountain of muscle and raw desire, his magnificent, throbbing erection a terrifying, undeniable promise of the ultimate violation to come.

“This is for your defiance, Priscilla,” he grunted, his powerful hands gripping her magnificent, curvy buttocks, spreading them wide, leaving her utterly vulnerable. “This is the price of your foolish pride.”

He thrust.

The pain was a white-hot nova, a shattering, tearing sensation that ripped a raw, animalistic scream from the depths of her throat. She felt herself being split apart, her body a mere vessel for a pain so profound, so absolute, it was almost a spiritual experience.

He didn’t pause. He didn’t hesitate. He drove himself to the hilt in a single, brutal, conquering motion, his powerful body covering hers, pinning her deep into the soft furs. She sobbed, a series of ragged, heartbroken sounds, her body a raging storm of pure agony.

“Feel me, Priscilla,” he grunted into her ear, his voice rough with exertion and unmasked triumph. “Feel me deep inside you. Claiming you. Owning you. You are mine.”

He began to move, his thrusts deep and punishing. Each one was a fresh wave of pain, but slowly, horrifyingly, that pain began to mingle with a new, alien sensation. A deep, stretching pressure that was… not entirely unpleasant. A profound fullness that her body, in its state of shock, seemed to be desperately trying to accommodate.

“Nhnnh… I… I will kill you…” she sobbed, her fists beating weakly, pathetically against his immovable chest.

“You will scream my name in pleasure,” he countered, his rhythm becoming faster, harder, more relentless. He was a force of nature, a storm of pure lust, and she was trapped at its violent epicenter.

He pulled out for a moment, leaving her gasping and empty, before brutally flipping her over. He positioned her on her hands and knees, her magnificent ass tilted up high for him. The position was utterly humiliating, animalistic, and it allowed for an even deeper, more violating penetration that stole her breath.

He slammed into her from behind, his large hands gripping her hips to steady her, his cock a brutal, punishing instrument of his absolute will.

SMACK!

The sharp, stinging sound of his open hand connecting with the pale flesh of her buttock echoed in the suddenly silent chamber. She cried out, a sharp gasp of surprise, pain, and overwhelming shame.

“Look at you, Archmage,” he sneered, his voice a low, predatory growl in her ear. “On your hands and knees for me. Taking my cock in your tight ass like a common whore begging for coin.”

SMACK! SMACK!

He spanked her again and again, his handprints a stark, red testament to his ownership on her magnificent, quivering flesh. She sobbed uncontrollably, a wretched mixture of profound humiliation and a burgeoning, shameful excitement that horrified her. The stinging pain was a sharp, focusing counterpoint to the deep, pounding pleasure of his cock filling her, stretching her, claiming her.

He brought her to her first, unwilling climax like that. It was a shattering, involuntary convulsion that ripped through her entire body, her frantic cries muffled by the thick furs she had buried her face in.

He came inside her then, a deep, guttural roar escaping his lips as he filled her with his hot seed, a possessive brand marking her from the inside out.

He pulled out, leaving her a trembling, sobbing, utterly violated mess on the bed. “Round one,” he announced, his voice thick with satisfaction. “A very good start. But your education, my dear Priscilla, has only just begun.”

He didn’t let her rest. He didn’t give her a moment to process the violation. He scooped her up into his powerful arms, his strength seemingly limitless. She was surprisingly light, her body trembling uncontrollably against his hard chest.

“Round two,” he declared, carrying her as he began to pace the chamber. He held her against him, forcing her legs to wrap around his waist, and entered her again, his thrusts deep and powerful, her body a mere plaything, a doll in his arms.

“Ahhh! Nhnnh!” she cried out, the sensation of being fucked while being carried, of having no control, no purchase, no ground beneath her, was utterly disorienting and overwhelmingly, shamefully arousing. Her world was reduced to his movements, his scent, and the feeling of him inside her.

He came inside her again, his release a powerful, pulsing surge that made her body clench tightly around him.

He didn’t stop. He then moved to the wall, pressing her hard against the cold, unyielding stone. Her magnificent breasts were crushed against the unforgiving surface, the sensation a stark contrast to the heat of his body against her back.

“Round three,” he grunted, entering her again from behind, his thrusts hard and punishing, each one driving her face into the cold stone. “Let’s see how the proud Archmage handles this.”

The night became a blur, a marathon of depravity. He was relentless, his stamina utterly inhuman. He was a god of lust, and she was his unwilling, yet increasingly responsive, goddess. He was determined to explore every facet of her body, to conquer every last bastion of her resistance.

After the assault against the wall, he pulled her back to the center of the bed and laid her down on her back. He spread her legs wide, hooking them over his broad shoulders, exposing her completely.

“Round four,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Let me see your face while I make you feel this.” He drove into her in this new position, the angle deeper, more intense than anything before. He watched her expression, watched the tears track down her temples, watched her jaw clench.

“Mhmmm… Ahhh… Please…” she whimpered, her voice hoarse. Her body was slick with sweat, her muscles aching, but still he drove on, a relentless machine of desire.

Then came a new horror. He pulled her up, forcing her to sit astride his lap, facing him.

“Round five. Cowgirl,” he commanded, his hands locking onto her hips. “You will ride me now, Archmage. Show me that power you hold so dear. Use it.”

“N-no… I won’t…” she sobbed, trying to push herself off him, but his grip was iron.

“You will,” he stated simply. He began to move her hips for her, forcing her into a slow, grinding rhythm, up and down on his thick, hard length. The control was all his, but the illusion of her dominance was a special kind of torment.

“Nhnnh… I won’t… Ah! Ah! Ah!” Her protests turned into rhythmic cries that matched his movements. She was forced to look down at their joined bodies, at the sight of herself impaled on him, rising and falling at his command. The shame was a fire in her veins, yet her body betrayed her again, a small, shuddering climax escaping her, a testament to his absolute mastery.

But through it all, through the searing pain, the alien pleasure, the soul-crushing humiliation, a single, defiant spark remained flickering within Priscilla’s soul. Her body might betray her, her pride might be shattered into a million sharp-edged pieces, but her will… her will was still her own.

’I will not break,’ she thought, the words a silent, desperate mantra amidst the raging storm of sensation. ’He can take my body. He can make me scream his name. But he will not have my soul. I will not be like them.’

After five brutal, overwhelming rounds that left her muscles screaming and her mind reeling, Alaric finally let her collapse onto the bed, a trembling, sobbing wreck. He then turned his undivided attention to Margaret and Josephine, who had been watching the entire spectacle with a disturbing mixture of rapt arousal and eager, hungry anticipation.

“Come, my sluts,” he commanded, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “It is time to show our new classmate how a good girl properly serves her King.”

The night descended into a marathon of calculated depravity. Alaric took Margaret and Josephine with a renewed, savage ferocity, their bodies already well-attuned to his every brutal desire. They screamed his name, they begged for more, their entire performance a deliberate, calculated lesson aimed directly at Priscilla.

He fucked Margaret from behind, her moans unnaturally loud and performative. “Do you see, Priscilla?” she cried out, her voice a high-pitched moan of pure ecstasy. “This is what it means to be truly alive! To be truly… owned! Ahhh, yes, my King!”

He moved to Josephine, pulling her onto his lap and taking her with a deep, punishing rhythm. “Let go of your pride, you foolish woman!” she added, her voice thick with pleasure as Alaric’s hand mercilessly squeezed her breast. “The pleasure… ah!… it is worth a thousand lifetimes of your sterile, lonely honor!”

Priscilla watched, her heart a cold, hard, heavy knot in her chest. She saw her Queen, a woman she had sworn an oath to protect, now a willing, eager participant in her own debauchery. She saw the royal consort, a woman once known for her grace and quiet dignity, now a groveling, lust-crazed slave. They had not just been broken; they had been… converted. Remade in his image.

Alaric, after a few more vigorous rounds with his two royal sluts, turned his fiery attention back to Priscilla. He was relentless, his energy seemingly inexhaustible, a bottomless well of masculine vitality. He took her again, and again, and again. The rounds blurred together, a hellish collage of tangled limbs and slick skin.

Round ten. Round fifteen. Round twenty.

He made Margaret and Josephine hold her down, their soft, willing bodies a stark, sickening contrast to her rigid, desperate resistance. He made them touch her, kiss her, their whispers of submission and the ecstasy of surrender a constant, insidious assault on her will.

“Feel that, Priscilla?” Margaret would murmur, her lips brushing against Priscilla’s ear as Alaric pounded into her from behind. “That is the feeling of true power. His power. Filling you, completing you. Nnngh… just let go…”

“Let go, my dear,” Josephine would add, her hand gently, almost kindly, stroking Priscilla’s hair as she was forced to watch. “It is so much sweeter when you stop fighting. When you accept your new reality. When you accept… him.”

Priscilla gritted her teeth, her body writhing in a horrifying mixture of agonizing pain and an undeniable, soul-destroying pleasure. She climaxed again and again, her cries a wretched mixture of agony and ecstasy, but she refused to give him the one thing he truly wanted: her willing, verbal submission. She would not beg. She would not plead for more.

The night wore on, a timeless, seemingly endless expanse of torment and pleasure. Thirty rounds. Thirty-five. Forty. The number was a blur, a meaningless tally in the face of the overwhelming, endless assault. He took them all, in every combination, their bodies a playground for his insatiable, divine lust. He orchestrated them like a conductor leading a symphony of depravity, with Priscilla as his unwilling lead instrument.

As the first pale, grey light of dawn began to creep into the chamber, filtering through the high windows, Alaric finally, blessedly, stopped. He lay amidst the three women, their bodies a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, their breathing a ragged, exhausted chorus.

He looked down at Priscilla, who lay beside him, her face a mask of tear-streaked, bone-deep exhaustion, her eyes closed. Her body was utterly, completely broken. Every muscle ached, every inch of her skin was tender, and her core throbbed with a dull, constant pain.

But her spirit… he could still feel it. A single, defiant ember, glowing stubbornly in the cold ashes of her shattered pride. He could feel it in the tension of her jaw, even in her unconscious state.

He had thoroughly enjoyed her resistance. It had been a delightful, stimulating challenge. A refreshing, invigorating change from the easy, predictable submission of the others. Her fire had stoked his own.

But it was also… an imperfection. A flaw in his otherwise perfect conquest of this kingdom’s leadership.

He would break her. Eventually. He had all the time in the world. And he already had a new, exquisitely cruel idea forming in his mind for her next lesson. A lesson that would involve more than just his own body.

But for now, he would let her rest. He would let her believe she had won some small, pathetic victory in the fortress of her own mind. Let her cling to the last, fragile, broken remnants of her will.

It would only make her final, inevitable surrender all the sweeter.

He closed his eyes, a faint, predatory smile gracing his lips. The final, and most powerful, Archmage was his, in body, if not yet entirely in soul. And the complete and total conquest of her soul… that would be a game he would savor for a long, long time.