CHAPTER 169: THE FIRST QUEEN

The palace reeked of sex and incense. Every room, every velvet-draped hallway, every silken throne cushion now bore the scent of Allen’s reign. What had once been a monument to beastkin history was now a temple of indulgence, a sanctuary of dripping worship where cries of devotion echoed through the walls at all hours. Servants didn’t wear clothes anymore. Priestesses crawled instead of walked. Every corner of the capital had submitted to Allen’s touch—but the city wasn’t what stirred beneath him now.

It was the continent.

Rumors were no longer whispers. They had become gospel, carried by pilgrim sluts with ruined wombs and blessed smiles. And from far-off cities, across cracked deserts and mountain ranges, queens began to listen.

She arrived in silence.

No horns. No heralds. Just a single obsidian carriage with curtains drawn and glyphs pulsing softly beneath the wheels. Her guards didn’t step down first. She didn’t send envoys. She didn’t kneel.

She stepped out barefoot, her footfalls whisper-soft on the palace stone. Her dress was spun moonlight, clinging to skin the color of wet clay, marked in ceremonial scars and slow, glowing lines of gold ink. Her eyes were silver. Her hair was black and shaved along the sides, trailing down her spine in an intricate braid.

Queen Nayali of Kashet.

Allen watched her from the throne—bare-chested, legs spread, one of the twins from the previous day still curled at his feet, her mouth drooling against his thigh. Rinni sat across his lap like a lazy cat, her thighs still shiny from the last round, while Fina licked wine off her fingers and tilted her head.

Nayali didn’t bow. Didn’t speak. She simply walked across the marble and stood between his legs.

"I heard you broke a god," she said softly. Her voice was warm honey, but dangerous. "My ancestors have worshipped the stars for generations. My priests say the constellations are... misaligned now. That something has seeded the heavens and corrupted fate."

Allen ran his fingers down Rinni’s back.

"I just fuck what’s in front of me," he replied.

Nayali tilted her head.

"Then let me be next."

There was no ceremony. No dragging out the foreplay. She dropped the moonlight dress to the floor, revealing scars and curves and strength—a body trained for war and worship alike. Her nipples were pierced with golden rings, her pussy already glistening, lips swollen like she’d been thinking of this the entire journey. She climbed into his lap without being invited.

And rode him like a woman claiming a throne.

Nayali didn’t scream when he entered her—she growled. Her back arched, her mouth dropped open in a silent moan, and she started to move with slow, ruthless power. Allen met her thrusts, hands gripping her ass, fingers spreading her open with no gentleness. Their rhythm was different—less desperate, more violent, more true. Like equals clashing, both trying to conquer, neither willing to surrender.

But then she came.

And everything cracked.

She came hard—so hard her legs shook and her body spasmed, but she didn’t stop moving. She rode through it, pussy spasming around his cock, juices running down her thighs. Her control broke, and Allen saw the real her—not the queen, not the ruler, but the beast. The ancient, primal need beneath centuries of posture and power.

He flipped her without warning, slamming her face-first into the throne steps, one leg hooked up, the other pushed wide. And then he took her again—rough, fast, relentless. Her moans became screams. The guards outside didn’t intervene. The courtiers in the shadows began touching themselves, watching their queen be broken open and remade.

Rinni leaned over and whispered in Nayali’s ear as Allen fucked her from behind, "You’re his now."

Nayali sobbed when she came again.

And when Allen finally finished—thrusting deep, groaning low, spilling a full load inside her shaking womb—she collapsed against the floor, arms spread, breasts heaving.

"I’ll send for my daughters," she said hoarsely. "They need to learn what a real god feels like."

That night, the palace held its first public ritual.

Nayali stood naked in the courtyard, surrounded by her royal guards, her generals, her daughters, her concubines—all stripped bare and kneeling. Allen walked among them, touching, testing, choosing. He fucked Nayali first, again, in front of everyone. Her daughters watched. Then he took the oldest daughter, and the youngest cried because she wasn’t chosen yet.

The crowd didn’t just cheer.

They begged.

More queens would come. More cities would fall. The continent was already opening its legs.

And Allen?

Allen just smiled and whispered, "One womb at a time."

By dawn, the sun rose over a different kingdom.

Kashet, once the cradle of desert elegance, had surrendered—not through war, not through treaties, but through a queen’s trembling thighs and the devout moans of her daughters. Its people awoke not to bells or horns, but to the muffled cries of surrender echoing through the palace courtyards, to the scent of sweat and sex wafting from open windows like incense. It wasn’t revolution. It was conversion.

Allen stood on the palace balcony with his cock still wet from the night’s last ritual. The warm air clung to his skin, humid with lust and dust. Below, the capital stirred—priests washing cum-streaked offering bowls, former guards on their knees as newly ordained cock-servants, and desert nobles stripped of their titles and clothes, waiting in line for their turn to be bred or broken.

Nayali hadn’t left his side.

She knelt beside the throne now, head bowed, breasts heavy, thighs glistening with a permanent mix of sweat and seed. The golden rings on her nipples jingled softly each time she breathed, a sacred melody of her submission. Her daughters slept in a pile nearby, bodies tangled together like overused toys, their bellies full, their minds broken in the most blissful way.

Allen didn’t need to chain this kingdom.

He’d already reshaped it from the inside.

When the temple bell rang—not the ceremonial one, but the deep, forbidden one that hadn’t tolled in a hundred years—Fina appeared at his side, cheeks flushed, lips wet. "The high priestesses from Urza just arrived," she murmured, licking a drop of leftover cum from her thumb. "They say they bring blessings. And more mouths."

Allen smirked. "Tell them to kneel."

They entered barefoot and in silence. Four of them, draped in ceremonial silks that barely clung to their curves, their faces painted with ash and semen-symbols. The oldest one, Matron Sela, was wrinkled but regal, her expression unreadable until she looked up at him—and smiled.

"Urza’s temples were once sacred," she said, unfastening her robes and letting them fall. Her breasts hung with weight and age, but her pussy was shaved bare. "But if Kashet now kneels, then it is not we who resist. It is we who beg."

Allen didn’t need to speak. His cock twitched, still slick, still hard, and they all knelt as one. Fina guided the oldest to mount him first, her experienced folds parting with ease, her gasp one of practiced submission.

The other three priestesses knelt below, mouths open, tongues out, as Sela bounced slowly in reverence. Their eyes fluttered, their moans syncing, and when Allen finally grunted and came deep into the elder priestess’s cunt, the others came too—just from watching.

And behind them, more pilgrims entered.

Kashet’s people were no longer ruled by law or lineage. They were ruled by lust, by the sacred pulse of Allen’s cock and the gospel of degradation whispered from cum-drenched lips.

Rinni dragged in a noblewoman by her hair next—a rival from the border. "She said she still believes in the old gods," Rinni teased. "So I baptized her the only way that matters."

The noble was on her knees, her cheeks streaked with tears and spit, throat red from earlier attempts to speak. Her cunt quivered from overstimulation, and when Allen motioned, she crawled forward without hesitation and opened her mouth.

He fed her the priestess’s dripping pussy, made her tongue clean the divine filth, and when she sobbed into it, Allen leaned down and whispered, "Now do you believe?"

She nodded against Sela’s folds.

That night, Kashet held a festival.

The main avenue was turned into a procession of sex and submission. Fountains ran not with water, but with thick white nectar, blessed by priestesses who’d spent the day on their backs. Musicians played with instruments while their dicks were sucked between verses. Children were sent away—too young to understand—but the rest of the city danced, fucked, and prayed beneath banners bearing Allen’s sigil: a crown pierced by a cock.

And as Allen stood atop the ziggurat, Nayali’s face buried between his legs, and his new temple of flesh writhed below, he looked north—toward the empire that had once enslaved beastkin, toward the human kingdoms still untouched.

It wouldn’t last.

Fina curled beside him, body glowing, eyes wild.

"You’re not just our king anymore," she whispered.

Allen looked down at the endless worship.

"I never was," he replied.