Vasilios
Some girls were born to kneel.
But Elira?
Elira had been dragged.
Not by force of body—at least, not at first—but by circumstance. By betrayal.
She had been traded by her stepmother. A cruel, angular woman whose hatred was rooted not just in fear—but jealousy.
Jealousy that her husband's eyes lingered too long on Elira's hips as she grew.
Jealousy that he dreamed of taking his stepdaughter's virginity on her eighteenth birthday—like some twisted rite of ownership.
Jealousy that Elira was beautiful without trying, soft where the woman had gone brittle, tempting without ever asking to be.
So she sold her.
Not to men.
But to monsters.
To the Court of Thorns, where purity was currency, and prophecy paid in blood.
I did not claimed her.
Not at first.
It was Malenthros who took her. She belonged to him.
Malenthros, whose vacant gaze and velvet voice lured minds into haze and bodies into heat. His speech didn't echo in your ears—it whispered in your bones. His gift wasn't seduction.
It was submission.
He summoned the court that night, as he had done for centuries, and presented Elira as the newest offering.
Not all virgins were accepted.
She had to be marked—descended from a pure bloodline, untouched, born under a crimson eclipse, with eyes that reflected flame.
Elira was all of these.
And so the Feast was called.
The scent of night-blooming jasmine hung low across the hall.
Candles shimmered from black iron chandeliers. Velvet banners—dyed blood-red and ink-black—rippled above the long banquet table, which gleamed beneath golden cutlery and dark wine. The Court of Thorns did not dine in ritual often.
But when we did…
The world bent around us.
The room was full of murmurs, silver laughter, and clinks of crystal. Nobles lounged in silk and leather, their masks worn not to hide, but to enhance. Predators sharpening their elegance.
And at the heart of it all, walking in with wide eyes and trembling shoulders, was Elira.
She wore a gown of starlight—black tulle over a bodice of garnet thread, the fabric hugging her hips like it had been stitched to her skin. Her pale hair had been braided with thin golden chains. Her lips were red. Her eyes piercing and pleading.
She was beautiful.
But it was her fear that made her exquisite. The way her blood pulsed in her veins from the fear.
She didn't know yet.
She suspected. They always did.
But she still walked in.
Still sat where we instructed.
Still smiled when Shiva, the High Lady of The South, raised her glass across the table.
Still tried to keep her breath steady.
They thought I would wait again.
But I was done waiting.
When the second course was cleared and the table redressed, and the music drifted into minor chords, I rose from my chair.
The hall fell silent.
All eyes turned to me as I walked to Elira's place at the table. She looked up, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, fear stricken.
Though she was terrified, she knew not to ask what was happening.
I extended my hand.
She took it.
I helped her rise, her fingers trembling against mine.
Then I spoke:
"The feast begins."
A chorus of sighs followed.
Some eager.
Some reverent.
She gasped as I pulled the laces at her back. Her gown slipped to the floor like spilled water.
She wore nothing beneath it.
Of course she didn't.
Shiva had prepared her.
We led her to the center of the table.
There, a velvet-covered dais waited—enchanted red silk ropes, golden rings embedded in the wood.
She hesitated.
Just a breath.
But I was behind her.
My hand pressed lightly against her spine.
"Kneel.
She did.
Slowly, she climbed onto the table, onto the dais. The room watched as I guided her arms above her head, locking her wrists into the golden cuffs.
Then her ankles—spread wide.
Exposed.
Offered.
A living centerpiece.
The table was not just set.
It was consecrated.
Gilded goblets of bloodwine.
Roasted meat seared in sacred oils.
Lust-thick incense curling from ancient braziers.
And in the center, Elira—naked, bound in red silk, I dusted her body with powdered salt, wine, and sacramental oils.
She trembled.
Her thighs glistened.
Her wrists were tied above her head to the chandelier base; her ankles spread and fastened with gold cuffs enchanted not to chafe but to burn just slightly when she struggled.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, nipples stiff in the candlelight, thighs trembling. Her scent—fear and something sweeter—filled the air.
"Elira," I said, just loud enough for the court to hear, "is marked by the blood of the Old Line. Pure. Chosen."
"She is not taken by force," Shiva added, "but by fate."
"She is not broken by blade," Malenthros whispered, voice curling like smoke, "but by surrender."
I stepped closer.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
"You may scream," I said. "But you will not beg."
She nodded, though her lips trembled.
Then, before the eyes of the court, I slid two fingers down her inner thigh.
She gasped.
Her body jerked.
I reached her center—warm, wet, waiting.
My fingers pressed forward, slow but sure.
She cried out—not in pain.
In shock.
And when the blood came, fresh and red and shimmering beneath the torchlight, I lifted my fingers and brought them to my mouth.
The taste of prophecy.
The taste of sacrifice.
The taste of beginning.
"Now," I said, "you may feast."
I stepped back from the table and Shiva approached.
The High Lady of the South.
She was nude save for a veil of chain and rubies across her breasts. Her steps were silent.
She dipped her fingers in bloodwine and brought them to Elira's mouth.
"Feed me," she whispered.
Elira resisted—barely.
Shiva took her chin and slid those fingers into her mouth.
"Good girl," she purred. "Begin."
What followed was not chaos.
It was orchestration.
One by one, the court came forward.
Marek slid his fingers between Elira's parted legs with deliberate slowness.
Her body tensed.
And then—his tongue.
He licked her softly at first.
Then deeper.
Then crueler.
Until her cries filled the stone chamber.
Shiva straddled her chest and fed from her lips.
Another elder pressed Elira's hands to their own chest and forced her to stroke and taste and moan.
Mouths on her nipples.
Teeth on her throat.
Fingers in her cunt.
Then cocks.
The first buried himself deep inside her mouth.
She gagged, eyes wide, but Malenthros stood beside her, with her hand in his stroking his dick, whispering.
"You want this."
And slowly—she did.
Her thighs opened further.
Her body slick with arousal and blood.
She rode one tongue while another cock filled her, her cries turning to eager whimpers.
They took her one after another—cunt, mouth, ass—until she no longer trembled from fear, but from overstimulation.
She came screaming beneath them, her body convulsing in waves.
The entire court roared their approval.