place.
A whimper emerged from Iris as she felt the massive beast begin to penetrate her, his flesh even hotter than hers, and so much harder. Her pussy began to spread around the insistent pressure, making way for the alien king’s claim. In another breath, her flesh would be his flesh. Her body would belong to him.
She could see all that possessive arrogance in his eyes. He thought he had her. He thought he had already taken her. He thought it was all over bar the orgasm.
But he was wrong.
Iris reached underneath her body, where her belt had been sliced away and found the last chance left to her, a final hope.
The king made a hissing sound as she slipped six inches of her village’s finest steel into his belly, slipping it up between two scales, finding his weakness in the moment of extreme vulnerability where he thought he had already won.
His expression was priceless as he lurched away from her, slumping to the side in the dirt. He stared at her, then at the knife embedded in his royal body, then back at her.
“Well done,” he grunted as golden blood seeped around the wound like slow honey.
There was no time to gloat, and no time to spare. She had to go, and she had to go now. Iris scrambled to her feet and fled, leaving the bleeding king behind incapacitated but in no way destroyed, no doubt vowing his vengeance upon her.
This was not over.
Chapter 2
Days earlier…
Twenty-four bodies swayed through the motions of the mating dance performed before the king.
Lyrical and smooth, then hard and quick, sharp snapping motions followed by fluid undulations, silk and blade whipping through the air. Nubile female dancers spun over one another’s shoulders as the drums slammed deep beats through the bodies of all in attendance, a thrumming resonance so low and intense that the weak could lose control of themselves.
These were the most beautiful women in the kingdom, every one of them nubile, fertile, and willing brides for the king. Their dances had been prepared years in advance, practiced for months, all in aid of this display. They presented themselves through the dance, their bodies oiled, their breasts painted, their eyes smudged dark and their faces marked with the distinct tattoos of their tribes.
Some of them had wings upon their backs, others had horns growing from their heads. Each and every one of the females was blessed with a beautiful mutation, one of which would be passed to her offspring if they were fortunate enough to emerge from royal lines. Mating with the king was not just an honor. It did not only represent riches and power and status. It also meant a genetic legacy.
So the young females, those of breeding age, chosen from among their people as the most beautiful of their kind competed against one another in the rhythmic dance. They splayed their wings, tossed their heads to show the beauty of their horns. They batted their lashes and shimmied their hips, they flared their dorsal ridges and displayed bold patterns. It was an unashamedly carnal display which inflamed the desires of all who were present. The courtiers and nobles stared at the beautiful, brilliant display, each and every one of them jealous to the core, hoping that the king would leave them some scraps.
The old king had a habit of taking every female presented and inseminating them all. He was free with his seed, and produced a great many worthy heirs. Then he had died, and those heirs had gone to war with one another. It had been a long, brutal, and bloody battle.
In the end, there could be only one. That one was now sitting on the throne watching the dance: Archon.
The odds that the ignobly born Archon would ever take the throne were so vanishingly small that it was almost impossible - and yet he had been crowned not three months earlier in a ceremony which drew consternation and celebration across the kingdom. There was no doubting his claim to the throne. He bore many of the marks of the Energon across his body. There was also no doubt that the other contenders for the throne were very much dead. There was, however, some doubt as to how long a creature like Archon could stay seated on the throne of Archaeus.
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