Enslaved by the Hunter King (Part 3)
Summary: You are cherished yet captive sex slave of a Yautja king, you surrender to his every whim, your body his to claim and ravish whenever he desires.
warnings: NSFW, Smut, Sex Slave, Made up Yautja names, probably some spelling mistakes
A/N : Hello there! I wrote a part three, I hope you enjoy!
You sit naked on the shaded balcony, overlooking the vast training grounds of the palace on Yautja Prime. The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, its harsh rays filtering through the thick canopy of jungle foliage that borders the palace grounds, casting a warm, golden hue over everything. The air is thick with humidity, carrying the distant calls of exotic beasts from the wilds beyond, mingled with the sharp scent of ozone from plasma discharges and the earthy musk of sweat-soaked warriors. Beside you looms an empty stone throne, carved from the deep crimson rock of the planet's canyons, its surface etched with intricate symbols of conquest and dominance—ancient Yautja runes depicting hunts, battles, and the subjugation of lesser species. You, however, recline not on the throne but on a pile of soft, plush furs, their luxurious textures a stark contrast to the rugged world around you. These furs are spoils from distant hunts, pelts of massive predators with iridescent scales and velvety underbellies, arranged meticulously to cradle your bare form like a nest.
Your body is adorned only with gold necklaces that cascade from your neck down to your breasts, the heavy chains glinting in the dappled light. Each link is forged from the melted-down trophies of fallen enemies, a symbol of your king's wealth and power. The weight of them presses against your skin, a constant reminder of your status—cherished yet captive, a prized possession in this alien realm. Surrounding you are plates of exotic fruits, meticulously arranged by the palace servants under your king's strict orders. Vibrant orbs of deep purple and fiery orange, their skins slick with dew, release sweet, tangy aromas that tempt your senses. Some are sliced open, revealing juicy interiors that drip nectar onto the stone floor. Your king, K'thar, has ensured you are well taken care of; no want goes unmet, no comfort overlooked. In this world of brutal hunters, you are his soft exception, pampered amid the savagery.
The training grounds below stretch out like a colossal arena, carved deep into the red-rock canyons that dominate Yautja Prime's landscape. Towering cliffs rise on all sides, their surfaces scarred by eons of erosion and etched with the claw marks of ancient battles. Dense jungle foliage encroaches from the edges, vines as thick as your arm dangling from overhanging ledges, their leaves rustling in the hot breeze. The air echoes with the clashes of plasma weapons—sharp hisses and explosive cracks as energy bolts slice through the air—and the guttural roars of sparring warriors. Dust kicks up in swirling clouds, mixing with the metallic tang of blood from minor wounds. The sun beats down mercilessly, its intensity amplified by the planet's thin atmosphere, casting long, ominous shadows from the trophy obelisks that dot the arena. These towering spikes, thrust into the ground like defiant spears, are adorned with the skulls of defeated enemies—bleached xenomorph crania with elongated domes, massive reptilian jaws from distant worlds, and even the occasional human helmet, cracked and forgotten. They serve as grim monuments to Yautja glory, reminders that weakness is fatal in this society.
Your balcony is private, elevated high above the fray, shielded by ornate stone railings inlaid with glowing bio-luminescent crystals that pulse softly in the daylight. From here, you have an unobstructed view of the chaos below, yet remain secluded, a hidden gem in the king's domain. No other eyes dare linger on you without permission; to do so would invite swift retribution from K'thar himself.
Your gaze is fixed on him now—King K'thar, the undisputed ruler of this clan, leading a rigorous training session with his elite warriors. He moves like a force of nature, his massive frame dominating the arena. Standing over eight feet tall, his mottled green-grey hide glistens with sweat under the relentless sun, the intricate patterns of his skin shifting with each flex of his powerful muscles. His dreadlock-like spines, thick and adorned with metal rings signifying his royal status, sway rhythmically as he pivots and strikes. He demonstrates combat techniques with brutal precision, his clawed hands a blur as he disarms opponents one after another. A warrior lunges at him with a plasma caster; K'thar sidesteps effortlessly, his mandibles flaring wide in a triumphant snarl, revealing rows of sharp teeth. With a single, sweeping motion, he grabs the attacker's wrist, twists it with bone-crunching force, and sends the weapon flying. The defeated warrior roars in submission, bowing low as K'thar releases him, his chest heaving with controlled breaths. Muscles ripple across his broad back and shoulders, corded like steel cables forged in the fires of countless hunts. He embodies raw power, a living testament to Yautja supremacy, and watching him stirs something deep within you.
You've grown accustomed to his dominance—addicted, even. Your body is his to claim and ravish whenever he desires, and the thought of it sends a familiar ache blooming between your thighs. The distance from the balcony heightens your longing; you can see his prowess, hear his commanding roars, but you can't touch him yet. It's a exquisite torture, one that makes your nipples harden against the gold chains and your core throb with need.
Occasionally, he looks up at you, his piercing amber eyes locking onto yours through the haze of dust and heat. It's a quick glance, but loaded with possession—he's checking on his pet, ensuring you're safe and content. You nod in response, a small smile playing on your lips, but sometimes you tease him further. Shifting slightly on the furs, you arch your back just enough to make your breasts jiggle, the gold necklaces swaying enticingly. His mandibles twitch in response, a subtle sign of his arousal that only you recognize. You smirk, knowing you've ignited a spark in him, even from afar.
Finally, after dispatching another pair of warriors with a flurry of strikes that leave them sprawled in the dirt, K'thar signals a pause. He climbs the stone steps to the balcony, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, echoing off the canyon walls. Sweat drips from his hide, tracing rivulets down his chiseled torso, and his armor is partially shed—shoulder plates and gauntlets removed, revealing more of his scarred, battle-hardened skin. He's breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, but his eyes burn with vitality as they fix on you.
A rush of heat surges between your legs at the sight of him approaching. You feel your arousal slicken your thighs, your body responding instinctively to his presence. "My king," you greet him eagerly, your voice breathy with anticipation.
He sits down on the stone throne with a grunt, the massive seat creaking under his weight. Without hesitation, you hop into his lap, facing him, your naked form pressing against his sweat-slicked hide. He embraces you immediately, his powerful arms wrapping around your waist like unbreakable bands, pulling you close. You nuzzle into his neck, inhaling deeply— he smells of sweat, sharp and masculine, mingled with the faint ozone from his weapons. You love it; it's the scent of his strength, his victories, and it makes your head spin with desire.
He holds your body firmly, one hand splayed across your back while the other reaches for a goblet of water on a nearby pedestal. He brings it to his mouth, taking a long sip, but some of the cool liquid drips from his mandibles, trailing down his neck. Without thinking, you lean in and lick it up, your tongue tracing the salty path, tasting the sweat that clings to his skin. He growls low in his throat at the sensation, a rumble that vibrates through your chest and sends shivers down your spine.
Your hands roam up and down his body, feeling the hard ridges of his muscles under your palms—the swell of his biceps, the defined lines of his abs, the powerful thighs beneath you. He puts the goblet down with a clink, his free hand now joining the other to hold you tighter.
"Master," you whisper, your lips brushing against his mandibles.
His touch ignites you further, and you lazily make out, your mouth seeking the unique texture of his tusked jaw. It's not a human kiss, but something primal—your lips and tongue exploring the edges of his mandibles, tasting him as he clicks softly in approval. He holds you in his arms, close to his chest, your breasts pressing against him. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pulls one of your legs up slightly, his clawed fingers careful not to scratch as he begins to rub small circles on your clit. The pressure is perfect, teasing, building the fire within you as you continue making out.
"You watched me, my slave?" he rumbles, his voice a deep gravel that resonates in your core. "Did the sight of your king in training make your cunt ache?"
The words, combined with his skilled touch, push you over the edge. You cum on his fingers with a gasp, your body shuddering in his lap, waves of pleasure crashing through you. He pulls his fingers free, slick with your release, and brings them to his mouth to lick them clean. You join him, your tongue darting out to taste yourself mingled with his skin, the act intimate and possessive.
But then he shifts, preparing to rise. "I must return to the training grounds," he says, his voice laced with reluctance.
You protest immediately, still dripping with need, your core aching for more—for him. "No, Master, please," you whine, grinding against his thigh. "I need it."
He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that echoes off the balcony walls. With effortless strength, he picks you up and gently places you back down onto your spot in the furs, arranging them around you like a cocoon. He grabs a piece of fruit from one of the plates—a juicy, purple orb—and feeds it to you, his fingers lingering on your lips as you bite into its sweetness.
"I will return later, my pet," he promises, his amber eyes gleaming with dark intent. "And when I do, I will give you what you crave—every inch of me, until you beg for mercy."
Then, he leans down, his tongue flicking out to lick yours in a teasing caress, before he turns and descends the stone steps back to the training grounds. You're left a dripping, wanting mess, your body humming with unfulfilled desire, the gold necklaces cool against your heated skin as you watch him resume his place among the warriors.
As night falls, the training grounds transform into the site of a grand clan victory feast. The same massive arena, once filled with the sounds of combat, now buzzes with celebration. Torches fueled by bioluminescent fungi line the canyon walls, casting flickering blue-green light over the scene, while overhead, Yautja Prime's twin moons rise, their pale glow mingling with the stars. The air cools slightly, a welcome respite from the day's heat, but the humidity lingers, making the night feel alive and charged. This feast honors a recent successful hunt: K'thar's warriors returned from a raid on a rival planet, laden with trophies—exotic beasts' hides, shimmering scales from massive serpents, and crystalline horns that catch the light like jewels. The aroma of roasting megafauna fills the air, massive haunches of meat turning on spits over open plasma fires, their juices sizzling and popping.
You sit next to your king on the ground, in a spot surrounded by soft furs similar to those on the balcony, a small oasis of comfort amid the rowdy gathering. K'thar wears his full armor this evening, the polished plates gleaming under the torchlight, etched with symbols of his reign. He occupies his stone throne at the head of the arena, elevated slightly above the crowd, his presence commanding respect. The warriors approach one by one, presenting their trophies to him as gifts—bowing low with roars of loyalty. He inspects each offering with a critical eye, but the softest hides, those with the most luxurious textures, he sets aside for you. "For my pet," he declares, handing them to you with a gentle touch that contrasts his fierce exterior. You accept them gratefully, running your fingers over the plush surfaces, feeling the warmth they retain from the beasts' lives.
The evening begins formally: warriors demonstrate combat moves, reenacting key moments from the hunt with dramatic flourishes, their plasma casters firing controlled bursts into the sky like fireworks. They share stories in booming voices, tales of glory and narrow escapes, their mandibles clicking in emphasis. But quickly, the mood turns festive. Drinking commences, the central focus being mead—a potent Yautja brew distilled from the fermented nectar of giant hive-beasts, creatures the size of elephants with hives that produce a golden, viscous liquid. Served in skull goblets—hollowed-out crania from worthy foes—the mead is strong, inducing a warm buzz that loosens inhibitions without leading to full intoxication. It's designed for warriors, enhancing their revelry while keeping them sharp.
You watch the festivities unfold: warriors arm-wrestle on massive stone tables, their muscles straining as they lock arms, roars of triumph echoing when one yields. Others roar tales of past glories, embellishing details for dramatic effect. Plasma displays light up the night sky, bolts arcing in intricate patterns like alien auroras. Music pulses from bone drums—hollowed femurs pounded with clawed fists—and alien flutes carved from xenomorph chitin, their haunting melodies weaving through the chaos.
Servants, lower-caste Yautja in simple garb, circulate with pitchers, filling goblets. One approaches K'thar, refilling his skull goblet with the amber liquid. You watch it intently, the sweet scent wafting to you, stirring curiosity. He notices, his mandibles quirking in amusement. "Come here, my pet," he rumbles, patting his lap. "On my lap."
You obey without hesitation, climbing onto his armored thigh, your naked body settling against him. He holds you securely, one arm around your waist, and brings the goblet to your lips, tilting it gently to let you drink. The mead is warm, sweet with hints of spice, sliding down your throat and warming your belly like liquid fire. It's intoxicating in the best way, a gentle haze settling over your mind.
"It tastes good, Master," you say, licking your lips.
"I am glad you like it," he replies, his voice a low purr. "Have some more." He holds it for you again, letting you sip deeply, then licks away the fallen drops from your chin with his rough tongue, the gesture both tender and possessive.
You sit on his lap for a while, watching the festivities, the world blurring slightly at the edges from the mead. He feeds you morsels of roasted meat and fruit from the platters, his claws careful as he places them in your mouth. He helps you drink more, sharing the goblet, the alcohol making you both a bit drunk— you giggly and bold, him with eyes glowing brighter with alcohol-fueled lust. His hands touch you possessively, groping your curves, squeezing your breasts and thighs under the watchful eyes of his clan, but no one dares object.
He whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, about "playing" with you, inspired by the hunt stories being shared. "These tales of pursuit and capture," he murmurs, his claws tracing patterns on your hip. "They remind me of our own games, pet."
The idea builds in him, tying into ancient Yautja mating rituals where males pursue females through the jungles, proving their worth by catching and claiming. He proposes the chase—a mock hunt in the palace grounds and the jungle edge. You agree eagerly, your core growing wet at the thought of him hunting you down and forcing himself on you, the danger mixed with desire.
"Run from me, pet," he whispers, his mandibles brushing your ear. "Pretend you're prey. If I catch you—and I will—I'll fuck you where you fall. Claim you for all to see."
He never lets you venture alone; you're only ever allowed places where he accompanies you. But you look into his eyes, silently asking for permission to run, and his amber gaze tells you yes—tonight, under the moons, it's allowed.
With a surge of adrenaline, you bolt from his lap, dashing down the stone stairs into the dimly lit training ground below. The arena is crowded, semi-public with the feast's rowdy energy—fights breaking out for fun, warriors grappling in good-natured brawls, massive haunches of megafauna being torn into with bare claws. The air is thick with the scent of roast meat and mead.
K'thar leans back into his stone throne, growling in excitement, his cock twitching beneath his armor at the thrill of the hunt. He starts to count in his deep voice, the numbers rumbling like thunder.
You run, heart pounding, the mead buzzing in your veins, weaving past tall warriors who glance at you curiously but don't interfere. You dart behind walls of stacked trophies, the chase leading to the shadowed edges of the arena. Looking back for a moment, you see K'thar standing on the balcony, his silhouette imposing. He screams a primal roar, and the crowd cheers for him, pounding their chests in approval.
Then, with a shimmer, he turns invisible, his cloaking tech activating. Your eyes widen in a mix of fear and excitement—you know he's coming.
You dash further into the giant arena, towards the outer gardens and jungle fringes: a mix of manicured paths lined with glowing flora and wild undergrowth, lit by bioluminescent plants that cast eerie, pulsing lights. Vines tangle overhead, and the ground is soft with moss. You think you've outrun him, your human agility letting you slip through narrower gaps. Hiding behind a cluster of glowing ferns, you catch your breath, the thrill intoxicating—fear mixed with arousal, the night air cool on your naked skin, pebbling your nipples and heightening every sensation.
But then he appears behind you, his cloaking deactivating with a soft hum, his massive form materializing like a ghost. Your eyes widen, and you bolt again, this time running back towards the other Yautja warriors in the arena's center. They turn their eyes to you, mandibles flaring in curiosity, and you freeze, exposed under their gazes.
Suddenly, K’Thar is at your back, his hands grabbing you firmly while everyone watches. He gropes your body possessively, claws tracing your curves, then licks a hot stripe up your neck, tasting your sweat. He turns you around to face him, his amber eyes blazing with hunger.
“You run well, little one,” he growled, his voice like grating stone. One hand came up, claws carefully sheathed, to cup your jaw. “You make the hunt worthy. Now… the prize.”
He guided you to your knees on the ground. The stone was cool against your bare skin. You looked up at him, at the powerful cords of his neck, the broad expanse of his chest, and lower, to the complex plating of his codpiece. You knew what lay beneath. Your mouth watered.
With a series of sharp clicks, the armored plating over his groin retracted. His cock, already emerging, was a sight that never failed to stun you. Thick, ridged, a deep greyish-green, and huge, curving up towards his navel. The broad head, a darker shade, was already beading with a drop of translucent pre-cum. It smelled of him, that intoxicating, spicy musk.
“Open,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for anything but obedience.
You leaned forward, your lips parting. You took the head into your mouth, the familiar, slightly salty taste flooding your senses. It was warm, firm, the skin like supple leather. You heard a collective, sharp inhale from the watching Yautja. You worked your mouth over him, using your tongue to lap at the slit, to trace the prominent ridges that ran along the underside. Your hands came up, needing to touch, to feel the sheer girth of him. Your fingers couldn’t meet around his shaft. You stroked what you could, your fist pumping in rhythm with your bobbing head.
“Yes,” K’Thar hissed above you. One of his hands tangled in your hair, not yanking, but holding, guiding. “Use your tongue. There. Just like that.”
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking hard, taking him deeper until the back of your throat protested. You relaxed, letting him push further. Your eyes watered. You loved this—the submission, the sheer physicality of it, the taste of him coating your tongue. The warriors began to chant, a low, rhythmic pulse of clicks and grunts, encouraging their king.
“She worships the king’s cock well!” one bellowed.
“Make her swallow his strength!” called another.
K’Thar’s hips began a shallow, relentless thrust into the wet heat of your mouth. His grip on your hair tightened. “You hear them, pet? They see what you are. Mine. This mouth is mine. This throat is mine. You take me so perfectly. Now… take everything.”
His rhythm broke, becoming erratic, powerful. A deep, guttural roar started in his chest. You knew the signs. You redoubled your efforts, slurping, sucking, milking him with your hand at his base. With a final, grinding thrust that made your jaw ache wonderfully, he came.
Hot, thick pulses of cum shot down your throat. It was more than a human’s, copious and rich, that same spicy musk now a overwhelming flavor. You swallowed convulsively, once, twice, but he kept coming, flooding your mouth. It spilled past your lips, dripping down your chin.
“Drink it,” he snarled, holding your head in place. “Every drop. You will show them how well you drink your king’s seed.”
You obeyed, swallowing until your throat burned, until the last thick pulse was gone. You licked your lips clean, then looked up at him, your eyes wide, your face a mess of him. The warriors cheered, clashing their wrists blades together in a cacophony of sharp, ringing sounds.
K’Thar looked down at you, his expression one of fierce, possessive pride. Without a word, he bent and hauled you up over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. Your world tilted. He carried you towards a heavy stone table where a few warriors were seated, drinking from rough-hewn horns. Mead sloshed as he approached.
“Clear it,” he said, his voice brooking no argument.
Horns and cups were swept aside. He laid you down on the cold, hard tabletop, your back against the stone. You were naked, exposed under the dim arena light and the gaze of over two dozen alien eyes. They didn’t leer; they watched with a respectful, heated intensity. This was a display, a claiming.
K’Thar stood between your spread legs, his hands roaming over your body—your hips, your stomach, squeezing your breasts, his thumbs rubbing over your nipples until they were hard, pebbled peaks. “Look at this,” he said to his men, though his eyes were on you. “Perfection. So Soft. So Mine.”
He leaned down, his tusks framing your face for a moment before he moved lower. He didn’t tease. He buried his face between your thighs, his wide, muscular tongue lashing a stripe from your asshole to your clit in one rough, eager motion.
You screamed. It was electricity, pure sensation, no finesse, just raw, hungry attention. His tongue was thick and abrasive, and he used it like a weapon, fucking it into your cunt, then swirling it around your clit, then plunging deep again. He ate you like a starved beast, growling against your flesh, the vibrations making your toes curl. You grabbed at the edges of the table, your knuckles white.
“Fuck! Master! Oh, god!” you shrieked, your back arching off the stone.
He didn’t slow. He hooked his hands behind your knees and pushed, folding you nearly in half, pinning your legs to your chest, opening you obscenely wide for him and for all to see. His tongue delved deeper, fucked faster. You could hear the wet, filthy sounds, could feel his hot breath on your most sensitive skin. The pleasure was a storm, building too fast, cresting with a violence that stole your breath.
You came with a shattered cry, your cunt clenching around nothing, pulsing, juices smearing his chin and tusks. He lapped at you through it, drinking your release, not stopping until the last tremor had left your body. He lifted his head, your essence glistening on his mandibles. He looked utterly feral.
“She tastes of victory,” he announced, and the table roared.
Still holding your legs pinned, he used his free hand to rip away the remaining half of his pants. His cock, still wet from your mouth, sprang forward, fully hard again, impossibly huge, the veins standing out along its length. He leaned over you, the broad head nudging against your soaked, trembling entrance.
“This cunt is mine,” he whispered, the words for you alone in the din. “It weeps for me. It milks me. It will take every inch of my fucking cock and you will scream your thanks for it.”
The stretch was breathtaking, a glorious, burning fullness you craved. You were so wet he sank in steadily, but his size was always a conquest. You screamed again, a long, ragged sound of pure pleasure as he buried himself to the hilt, your body accepting him, welcoming the familiar invasion. He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He pulled back and slammed home.
The table shuddered. Your tits bounced. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his amber eyes blazing. “Tell them,” he grunted, his pace brutal, relentless. “Tell them who fucks you.”
“You!” you gasped, meeting every drive with your own upward jerk of your hips. “My Master! My king!”
“YOU!” you screamed, the sound echoing. “MY KING FUCKS ME! HIS COCK IS IN MY CUNT! HIS!”
The warriors were on their feet now, pounding the table, the walls, a thunderous approval. K’Thar fucked you with a powerful, deep-stroking rhythm that hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur. His balls slapped against your ass with each inward drive. The sounds were obscene—the slap of flesh, the creak of the table, your mingled cries, the roaring crowd.
“Such a good pet,” he rasped, his voice rough with exertion. “Taking my fucking cock like you were made for it. You were. Made for this. To be filled. To be bred.” The word sent a new shock of heat through you. “You want my cum in this greedy little cunt? You want me to pump you full?”
“Yes! Please, yes! Breed me, fuck, breed me please!” you babbled, lost in the sensations, in the public spectacle, in him.
He drove into you, harder, faster, his rhythm fragmenting. You felt the coil inside you snap again. Your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding, white-hot convulsion that clenched around his invading length. You thrashed under him, screaming his name as your cunt spasmed, milking him.
That undid him. With a roar that shook the very air, he slammed deep and held, and you felt the hot, surging flood of his release fill you, pulse after thick, heavy pulse, stuffing your convulsing channel until you felt impossibly full, until it leaked out around where you were joined.
He stayed buried in you for a long moment, panting, his forehead resting against yours. The arena was deafening with cheers. Slowly, he pulled out, a gush of your mixed fluids following his retreating cock. He looked down at the mess, at your well-used, dripping cunt, and a fresh, hungry light entered his eyes.
“Not enough,” he muttered. He flipped you over onto your stomach with effortless strength. Your cheek was pressed against the cool stone, your ass in the air. You felt the broad, wet head of his cock nudge against your other hole.
“This one, too, is mine,” he declared. He spat into his palm, slicked his already cum-coated shaft, and pressed against your tight rear entrance.
“Master…” you whimpered, not in protest, but in overwhelmed anticipation.
He pushed. The intrusion was sharper, tighter, a burning stretch that made you gasp. He worked his way in with slow, inexorable pressure, your body yielding to him, until he was fully seated in your ass. The fullness was unbelievable, different, a deep, penetrating ache of pleasure. He began to move, a slow, grinding fuck that made you see stars.
“Fuck, your ass is so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. “Gripping my cock like a fucking fist.”
He pulled out of your ass, the cool air a shock, and with a single slick thrust, he was back in your dripping, sensitive cunt. You cried out, overstimulated and loving it. He fucked your pussy for a few deep strokes, then withdrew and plunged back into your ass. He switched between them, stretching and filling both holes, claiming them alternately, his cum from your pussy acting as lubricant for your ass. The warriors were in a frenzy, chanting with each switch.
“All your holes belong to the king!”
He finally settled on your ass, fucking it with deep, punishing strokes that shook your entire body. You came again from this alone, a dry, wrenching orgasm that left you limp. He followed, roaring as he emptied another massive load deep into your bowels, flooding you a second time. He collapsed over you for a second, his weight a comforting burden.
But he wasn’t done. With a grunt, he got onto the table with you, on his knees behind you. He pulled you up onto your hands and knees. You were both on the stone table now, a spectacle atop the spectacle. He entered your fucked-out, dripping cunt from behind, one hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back, the other hand splayed on your back, pushing you down.
This was brutal, animalistic. He pounded into you, his hips a furious piston, the force driving you forward with each impact. Your breasts swung beneath you. His grip on your hair was firm, controlling, holding you in place for his use. The sound of his flesh against yours was a continuous, wet slap.
“Look at them!” he snarled in your ear. “Look at them watching my pet get fucked! See how they envy me this? This perfect, fuckable body? They will never have it. This cunt,” a particularly hard thrust, “this ass,” another, “this mouth… all mine. You are mine to fuck, to fill, to breed. Say it!”
“Yours!” you sobbed, the pleasure a continuous, overwhelming wave. “All yours! Fuck me, breed me, please!”
He was relentless, fucking you like he wanted to break the table, to fuse you together. You felt another orgasm building, a tsunami from the sheer relentless stimulation. He felt it too.
“Cum for me, pet,” he growled, his voice ragged. “Cum on your king’s cock one more time. Soak me. Then take what is yours.”
The command, the ownership in his voice, pushed you over. You shattered, your cunt clamping down on him in rhythmic, pulsing spasms that seemed to pull the very cum from his balls. He roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph, and buried himself to the hilt. You felt him erupt, not inside this time, but pumping his release all over your back, your ass, painting your skin with hot, thick stripes of his cum. It spattered your hair, dripped down your sides. He emptied himself utterly, until he was spent, pulling out and letting the last few spurts land across your trembling thighs.
He let out a final, deafening scream to the arena rafters, a declaration of possession and pleasure. The warriors responded with a unified, earth-shaking cheer that lasted for a full minute. Cum was everywhere—on the table, on you, on him. The smell of sex and musk and mead was overpowering.
K’Thar looked down at you, a mess on his table, panting, covered in him. He gently released your hair, his touch softening.
With the cheers still echoing through the arena, K'thar's demeanor shifts from feral conqueror to tender guardian. He lifts you up from the table with infinite care, his massive arms cradling you like fragile prey. Your body is limp, exhausted from the relentless claiming, every muscle aching in the most satisfying way. The mead hits you harder now, a warm fog clouding your thoughts, making your eyelids heavy. The drunk warriors cheer as he carries you away, their roars a thunderous ovation for their king's display, but K'thar pays them no mind. His focus is solely on you, his cherished pet, as he ascends the stone steps back to the balcony.
The lights up here are much dimmer, the torches spaced farther apart, casting a soft, intimate glow that feels worlds away from the rowdy feast below. The night air is cooler now, a gentle breeze rustling the jungle foliage, carrying the faint, soothing hum of nocturnal insects. K'thar settles onto his stone throne with you in his arms, positioning you carefully in his lap, your head resting against his broad chest. His armor, still partially in place, is warm from his exertions, and you sink into him, your naked skin sticky with sweat and his seed.
"You were magnificent, my pet," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you like a lullaby.
Exhaustion washes over you in waves, your body trembling slightly from the aftershocks of pleasure and the alcohol's embrace. You lay in his arms, too spent to move, your breaths coming in soft pants. He senses your fatigue and calls softly to the servants lingering in the shadows of the balcony. They approach with deference, bearing soft, wet cloths soaked in warm, scented water—infused with healing herbs from the jungle, their aroma calming and restorative.
K'thar takes the cloths himself, dismissing the servants with a nod. He begins to wipe you off carefully, starting with your face. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he cleans the remnants of his release from your skin, tracing the cloth over your cheeks, your lips, your chin. "Look at you," he whispers, his mandibles clicking softly in affection. "Covered in my essence, marked as mine. But now, let me care for you, as you deserve."
He moves downward, wiping your neck and shoulders, then your breasts, taking extra time to soothe the sensitive peaks with feather-light strokes. The cloth is warm against your cooled skin, easing the aches. He praises you throughout, his words a steady stream of adoration. He cleans your stomach, your hips, dipping between your thighs with utmost care, avoiding any soreness as he removes the sticky evidence of your union.
Once your front is clean, he turns you gently in his lap, supporting your weight as he wipes your back, your ass, your thighs—every inch attended to with precision. The process is slow, deliberate, allowing you to relax deeper into his hold.
When he's satisfied that you're clean, he sets the cloths aside and reaches for one of the soft hides presented earlier at the feast—the luxurious pelt he saved for you. He wraps you up in it, the fur enveloping you like a warm embrace, its plush texture soothing against your bare skin. The warmth seeps into your bones, chasing away any lingering chill from the night air.
Next, he brings a goblet of fresh water to your lips, tilting it slowly so you can drink without effort. The cool liquid is refreshing, quenching the dryness in your throat from your screams and the mead's lingering sweetness. "Drink, pet," he urges gently. "Restore yourself. You've earned this respite."
The combination of the warm fur and the solid warmth of his chest against your back makes you sleepy, your body melting into his. He holds you tight in his arms, one hand stroking your hair with surprising tenderness for such a formidable being, the other cradling your waist. "Sleep now, my cherished one," he whispers, his breath warm on your ear. "You pleased me beyond measure tonight. Rest knowing you are safe, valued, adored. No harm will come to you while I watch over."
He leans down, his rough tongue flicking out to lick your face in a affectionate gesture—tracing your cheek, your forehead, a Yautja mark of possession and care. The sensation is comforting, familiar, lulling you further into drowsiness.
As the sounds of the feast fade into a distant hum, and the twin moons climb higher in the sky, you fall asleep in his arms, secure in the knowledge that you are his—cherished yet captive, forever bound to your king's whims.
Read Part one HERE and Part two HERE
