The Spoils- Party Hard!

[MisterZ]

Teaser: She tried to dig in her heels, but a guard caught each of her arms and dragged her forward, as harsh laughter and empty cups and gnawed bones rained down. “No! No! You can’t!” she pleaded as they pressed her back to the pole and forced her arms over her head.

The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: The Spoils
Author: MisterZ
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Queen Mira stepped naked from the warm bath, and allowed her shaking handmaid to dry her and fasten her sleeveless purple silk gown, embroidered with gold thread, about her throat and around her firm young curves as she ignored the sounds below her window. Her topaz eyes stared straight ahead as her brunette hair was swept up and pinned in place with a golden circlet. Her makeup took longer, between her handmaid’s trembling hands and the fact the watchers that filled the chamber with the stink of smoke and sweat and horses and blood had confiscated any items that might pierce Mira’s smooth olive skin. She persevered. She may have been queen for but five days, but she would end her reign looking the part.

She had been married in haste, to cement an alliance against the onrushing hordes of Argat the Conqueror, only for her husband to be called from the marriage bed with news that Argat already marched on him. As the dawn of her fourth day as queen broke a messenger toppled off a horse dead on its feet to announce the army had been massacred. As Argat’s banners appeared on the horizon Mira did what she could to organize a defense with the boys and old men who remained, but the cowards she ruled had listened to tales of what Argat had done to cities that resisted and as the fifth day dawned they had thrown open the gates in hopes of mercy. Mira wished them, and their wives and daughters, all the mercy they deserved.

As Argat’s men hammered at the gates of the palace she hastened from her chambers to do she knew not what, only to find his warriors had already scaled the walls and were in the hall. They escorted her to her room, cleared it of any way she could swiftly do away with herself, and made it wordlessly clear she would attend the pleasure of their lord and master when the time came. And as the sun set on Mira’s last day as queen they indicated the time had come.

They left her simpering handmaid behind and escorted Mira unspeaking through palace halls as silent as a tomb. The emptiness of the halls, only a few days ago crowded with servants and courtiers and wedding guests, unnerved her, and she struggled to compose herself, to reassure herself. The fate of a sacked city was one thing, but she was royalty. Her father was still lord of his own kingdom and would pay ransom for her return unharmed, even if he had to squeeze every fat noble and insolent merchant in his reach to do it. And no matter what was said of him, this Argat must recognize the gods-given sanctity of an anointed queen. Perhaps she would be simply sent on her way, with some diplomatic message for her father. She hoped it was not a marriage proposal. She had no feelings about shedding her widowhood too soon; she had spent barely three days in her husband’s company, and could not find it in her to mourn. But to wed a stinking barbarian…

Lost in her thoughts, she did not even notice what passageways her guards were leading her through until the doors before her were flung open and she was struck with a wave of shouts and screams and strange music. The guards pushed her forward and she stumbled into the amphitheater where, only days before, she had been wed and crowned.

On the flagstone floor of the amphitheater two great bonfires blazed, their light and smoke blotting out the stars above. Between then the stones had been pried up and a tall iron pole driven into the earth beneath. Tattered banners of defeated kingdoms hung from the crosspiece, and it was topped with the head of a snarling wolf.

Rising up on three sides, the rows of marble seats were filled with rough men in battered leather and stolen silks, eating and drinking. Servants still in their palace livery hurried between them. The men shouted and laughed and sang. Some rose to drunkenly dance and fall and crash and wrestle. Some rose to drunkenly brawl and fall and crash and wrestle. In the bottom row she watched a one-eyed warrior spit out a chewed lotus bud, grin as the drug took hold, and pull down a passing serving girl. Her screams rose above the harsh laughter of the men as they chewed their lotus and swilled their wine.

Shocked, Mira wheeled around and saw Argat himself, seated on her husband’s white marble throne on the royal platform above the door she entered. He was clad in black, his long dark hair bound back under his iron crown and the dark beard and mustache on his impassive face, a shade darker than Mira’s own, closely trimmed. Three women sprawled at his feet, naked save for iron collars, and a slender figure in a cloak and hood of black wolfskin stood beside him. Behind them a quartet of musicians played a strange barbarian tune. One beat a drum to the time of a panicked heartbeat, while his three fellows somehow made unfamiliar stringed instruments strum and scream in time. The acoustics of the royal box carried the sounds to every inch of the space.

The hooded figure looked down, saw Mira, and stepped forward with a shout and raised arms. The cloak fell back and she was revealed as a woman, nude, with stark white albino skin covered in stark black tattoos. Serpents coiled about her arms and legs, a winged dragon rose between her breasts and the pattered of a skull had been etched onto her face. The music ceased and silence fell, and she pointed as Mira and began to speak firmly in a barbarous tongue. Her oration ended she raised her hands to a thunderous sound of hooting and stamping from the crowd that only grew louder as Argat rose from his seat and began to make his way out of the royal box and the band resumed its frantic tune.

The guards spun Mira about and she froze in place, suddenly terrified of what the pole and fires could mean. She tried to dig in her heels, but a guard caught each of her arms and dragged her forward, as harsh laughter and empty cups and gnawed bones rained down. “No! No! You can’t!” she pleaded as they pressed her back to the pole and forced her arms over her head. She felt a cold iron chain wrapped around her wrists and secured, and let out a helpless shriek as she was pulled upward. The chain left her held taut, her bare feet just touching the ground, and the guards stepped back to reveal Argat and his women standing before her.

She could see now his clothes were simple rider’s leathers, leggings and skirt, a sword in a black leather scabbard on his back. He was tall, toweringly tall, with broad shoulders and arms and legs like tree trunks. Two spikes jutted down like fangs from his iron crown, framing a hard, weather-beaten face with intense dark eyes. To his left stood a northern blonde with skin nearly as pale as the albino’s, while the woman to his right had the dark skin of the farthest south. The woman who behind him had been clearly born in the empires of the east. To the side stood a brazier filled with white-hot coals, with a leather-wrapped iron rod protruding from the top.

The robed albino, apparently some barbarian priestess, shouted some harsh gable before producing an ivory bowl, perhaps a foot across, from under her robes. Argat took it ceremoniously, and the priestess a wineskin and filled it to the brim with a dark red liquid. Throwing the skin aside she drew forth a leather pouch, from which she sprinkled a powder into the wine. Argat raised the bowl high and drank half of it down to the thunderous cheers of his men.

He strode forward flanked by his dark and light concubines and followed by the priestess. Mira could now see the edges of the bowl had been crudely hacked and hastily smoothed, and she had a sudden realization of what the bowl was and a horrible intuition of who it belonged to. “No, no, gods no,” she said, shrinking back.

The priestess danced behind her and tilted her head back, grasping it by the forehead and chin, forcing her jaw open. “You must drink, your majesty,” she cooed into her ear in a strange, lilting accent. “It is your wedding feast, the sealing of the rite of conquest. The king is dead, the queen is his, the land is ours.”

Argat strode forward and poured the bowl into her gaping mouth. Much of it splashed her face and down the front of her gown, but enough of the thick, warm, sour liquid made its way down Mira’s throat to make her gag. Snow-white hands forced her jaw shut and covered her nose, and the queen swallowed convulsively.

The hands released her, and Argat stepped back as Mira coughed and gagged. When she lifted her head again she found herself staring, for just a moment, into his dark, cold, predatory eyes. Then, before she could react, he reached forward, grasped her collar, and ripped her robes from her body. She shrank back and reddened as thunderous cheers and raucous laughter echoed all around her and another rain of greasy bones came down. Argat stepped back, letting the wine-stained rags drop to the ground, and the eastern concubine knelt before him.

She felt new hands on her, and again tried to shrink back as the dark and light concubines gently stroked her hair, her arms, her sides. A palm brushed against and exposed nipple, fingers traced along her thigh.
“Your sisters welcome you,” the priestess crooned. “Every bride of the Son of the Wolf is a princess or queen. Also an orphan or widow. He cares for them, shelters them in his very bed. Is he not a kind lord?”
Mira stared as the eastern concubine released a fastening on Argat’s breaches as his hardening manhood sprang forth. It was proportionate to the rest of him. Her only point of comparison was the stallions in her father’s stables. She watched the concubine lavish kisses on it, a thing she had only known from the overheard conversations of giggling servants. Her eyes widened as the woman actually took it in her mouth, her lips gaping as she took it in and in and in…

She tore her eyes downward, to see the woman’s ass had a mark in the shape of a snarling wolf. No, not a mark, a brand, seared into her flesh. Her eyes flew to the brazier, and she shook.
“Yes, you see. He has placed his mark on them, claimed them body, blood and soul,” the priestess says. “They shall serve them in life, and their shades will serve him forever in the underworld.”
Mira felt dizzy, feverish. The terror, the wine – no, not he wine, whatever hell-poison the witch had put in the wine. Her heart was beating faster and faster. Her skin was too small. The fingertips were ants on her flesh. A scream struggled to escape but would not come.

Then it did come, as Argat came striding toward her once more. His cock was out, hard and enormous, and his hair was unbound and wild. His face, his eyes – once she had snuck into an exhibition of fighting beasts. They eyes of the creatures as they tore into each other had haunted her nightmares. Now she saw them again.

With a snarl he seized her beneath her knees and lifted her from the ground, her arms and back protesting. He wrenched her legs apart and drove himself into her, and her scream could be heard even above the roar of the crowd and the exultant shriek of the priestess.

Mira’s husband had been dutiful. The experience was brief and not as unpleasant as she had feared. But this man was a savage giant, and her womanhood screamed in pain under his assault. Her back slammed into the iron pole again and again as he thrust himself over and over, forcing himself deeper and deeper into her tightness each time.

Her mind spun. The smell of sweat and smoke and blood was everywhere. The heat – was it from the bonfires, or from the wine coursing through her blood? – left her slick with sweat. Her shrieks were lost in the roar of the crowd, the rising screams as Argat’s men took up their master’s example with the serving girls. Below it all was the frantic drum, beating in time with her heart, pounding into her brain.
It went on and on. He hammered into her untiring, snarling down at her with bared teeth. She was folded nearly in two, the pole digging into her back, every muscle protesting, screaming beyond her now, just an animal whimper with each thrust.

And the drums and the screams and the drums and the fire in her blood and her body burned through her, hotter and hotter, hotter and hotter, and she perceived a new sensation, one that had only come before in secret stroking alone in the dead of night. “N, n, n,” she managed to whimper in shame as her body shook in betrayal.

And still it went on and on, and endless netherworld torment, faster and faster, deeper and deeper, until suddenly he was roaring, louder than the crowd, louder than thunder, and she felt a jet of white-hot lust and hate spray into her womb. The crowd bellowed and the priestess gave a triumphant shout, first in her tongue and then in Mira’s. “The king is dead, the queen is his, the land is ours!”

Mira fell limp as she felt him abruptly withdraw, gasping at the sudden emptiness within her After a moment she looked up to see him draw his sword and she closed her eyes and fell boneless to the ground as the chain above her shattered. She looked up, gulping like a landed fish, every muscle on fire to see him standing a few paces back, his sword in his sheath and his still half-erect cock dangling. One hand was withdrawing the iron from the fire. She whimpered. The queen was his. The queen was his.

Her throat had one more scream in it.

[Shocker]

A very imaginative story, I liked this a lot. Sex snd Drugs were certainly present on the Rock’nRoll , I’d say there are aspects that can be construed as such. Reading your story, I’d say you fell in the same trap I did focusing on the party hard and not the theme.

Your story is undoubtedly good, so don’t take my words as criticism. Contests can have their open little pitfalls, still glad that you join the party.

[MisterZ]

It's a loose use of the theme, I'll admit. Had a few ideas that might've hewed a little closer, but none of them clicked.

I'll have to read yours now, been avoiding the other entries until I got mine in.

[Shocker]

It's a loose use of the theme, I'll admit. Had a few ideas that might've hewed a little closer, but none of them clicked.

I'll have to read yours now, been avoiding the other entries until I got mine in.

I ended up writing two stories because of that. Party x is not fully rounded yet, but I was only leaning into the party aspect. If AdmiralPiet hadn’t posted something in chat, I would have full steam posted something not matching any of the themes. Also for the record I think you met them well enough, the rock element just got raped into shape.

[RapeU]

I'm picturing Argat as someone from a warrior like nation, possibly Viking. I like how you mentioned music in the story without mentioning what it was and left it to reader imagination. For me, I'm thinking it was something like this:



So I do think the Rock'N'Roll theme is touched on here because the music could be anything.

[MisterZ]

Heh, Amon Amarth is pretty much what I had in my head.

[sinfulwords]

Ok I reeeeaallly like this one as a lord of the rings/game of thrones enthusiast this hit so many bells for me!

Mira, at first, put me off, but not really because she wasn’t a well rounded character or anything like that, but because you wrote royalty very well your depiction, in all probability, is very historically accurate and is exactly how i view royalty tbh

For example:

…Mira did what she could to organize a defense with the boys and old men who remained, but the cowards she ruled had listened to tales….and as the fifth day dawned they had thrown open the gates in hopes of mercy…Mira wished them, and their wives and daughters, all the mercy they deserved…

She used such inflammatory language to degrade her new countrymen. Like, it’s sooooo easy for some queen to look her nose down at the peasant class for being terrified in the face of conquest royalty was seldom murdered after conquest in medieval times, so, of course it’s easy for her to call them cowards. By all accounts she’d most likely keep her life either way. ….And of course it never dawned on the perfect little queen that it was her husband’s poor military strategy and leadership that landed her and her subjects into this predicament in the first place!!! I’m pissed (which is a good thing, your writing inspired a lot of emotion in me)

As for the writing, I loved it! Your use of figurative language is wonderful, your prose invokes good imagery, i could see everything like a little movie in my brain bravo!!

I also loved your depiction of Argat and the barbarians I love me some Viking-type-paganism any day of the week. It was cool how in such a short story you showed so much of their hedonistic culture! Loved the albino priestess, the bon-fires, the drums, the lotus drugs, the harem of concubines (that was so hot btw, all his slave-wives kneeling before him as he sat on the conquered throne )

This was a VERY creative way to use the prompt! A celebration (party) of conquest with witch-wine and lotus-drugs!!! Terribly clever! I commend you thoroughly

Kudos x 10,000 loved your story to bits! SEQUEL; SEQUEL; SEQUEL!!!!

[Lucius]

Good Conan or perhaps Genghis Khan vibes, I like the small details that make the story vibrant and leave the impression that I cherish, that there is a wider world beyond the text. The only negative aspect I can think of is Mira being quite passive throughout.

The hooded figure looked down, saw Mira, and stepped forward with a shout and raised arms. The cloak fell back and she was revealed as a woman, nude, with stark white albino skin covered in stark black tattoos. Serpents coiled about her arms and legs, a winged dragon rose between her breasts and the pattered of a skull had been etched onto her face. ...

Hot! (Incidentally, 'pattern of a skull', I presume?) If there's a sequel, I'd like to see the priestess doing the temple prostitution thing or something...

He strode forward flanked by his dark and light concubines and followed by the priestess. Mira could now see the edges of the bowl had been crudely hacked and hastily smoothed, and she had a sudden realization of what the bowl was and a horrible intuition of who it belonged to.

Speaking of skulls... A nice detail.

[Claire]

A very imaginative setting and the prose is very vivid. You definitely have a way with words! But to me, the story gets lost describing environmental details or the appearance of characters. The ratio of words describing the atmosphere to words spend on things actually happening or making me care about anything that's going on tilts way too much in the direction of the former for me.

[AdmiralPiet]

This has lots of the stuff I like: Fantasy, a beautiful queen defiled, lust drugs, a barbarian priestess and exotic concubines.
The ending was really good.

I struggled a bit with the flow of the text. Some sentences felt a bit clunky to me.
But take that with a shovel full of salt, as @Claire seemed to like it very much.

I do like that you set up everything, and you do it well, without falling into long winded descriptions. But the rape as the big centerpiece could have been expanded somewhat.
I think my second name in this forum is Mr. Worldbuilding, but I agree with Claire here that some more actual story is needed.

I see where you used the theme, and I appreciate the way you adapted it for the fantasy setting, but overall I think it was the weakest out of the four entries.

But overall: Good Job! I look forward to more.

PS: I don't comment on this often, but I think another round of editing could help this story. I have seen a doubled sentence, some typos, a missing word. Things like that.