CHAPTER 171: CROWN BETWEEN HER THIGHS(18+)

The moan of the altar hadn’t faded. It echoed still in the bones of Kashet, a sensual tremor that slid through the cracks of the capital like a secret lover’s touch. Streets that had once buzzed with nervous order were now quiet, dazed. The temple guards sat with flushed cheeks and trembling hands, their spears forgotten as their minds swam in fevered dreams. In the bathhouses, in the noble halls, in the brothels and dormitories and tea shops—women stirred from sleep, soaking through their linens without knowing why. Something had been claimed. Something divine. And their bodies felt it.

But in the high palace, where marble floors gleamed and servants whispered like mice, Queen Soreya sat stiff in her throne, hands clenched tight around her scepter, her golden gaze locked on the horizon.

She had felt it too.

Not just the moan—but the calling. Like something had whispered directly into her womb. A demand. A warning. A promise.

A knock broke her trance.

"Your Majesty," came a voice, breathless. "The—Temple. It’s... there are reports. The high priestess... she was seen crawling from the gardens. Naked. Covered in... in—"

"Cum?" Soreya asked flatly, her voice cold and sharp.

The messenger went silent.

The queen stood.

She did not summon her carriage. She did not ask for guards. She walked. Down from her marble throne, through the silk-draped halls, past stunned servants and panting courtmaids with thighs clenched. She walked in silence, her long crimson cloak billowing behind her like smoke. Her heels clicked against the stone, a steady rhythm that cut through the dizzy moans lingering in the corridors. Every step was a rejection of the chaos—but her eyes said otherwise.

She was burning.

Allen stood in the center of the temple garden, half-clothed, his chest slick with sweat and smeared lipstick, his cock still semi-hard and glistening. Fina lay draped across the altar like a spoiled queen herself, her thighs parted, twitching from aftershocks. Rinni was curled on the floor, surrounded by empty-eyed priestesses still worshipping the tiles with their tongues. The whole room smelled like sex, incense, and corrupted holiness.

The moment the Queen entered, the garden hushed.

Allen turned.

The two locked eyes.

And for a heartbeat—no words. Just hunger wrapped in royalty.

"You," Queen Soreya said, her voice razor-sharp despite the quake in her breath. "What have you done?"

Allen didn’t answer. He stepped forward.

She did not retreat.

He came close—so close she could smell the temple on him. The rawness. The ruin. Her lips parted slightly, and her thighs tensed beneath her gown.

"You walked into my kingdom," she whispered, "and you defiled its heart."

"No," Allen said, low and slow, "I woke it up."

Silence again.

And then she slapped him.

The crack echoed—but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he caught her wrist in one hand, gripped her hip with the other, and yanked her into him, chest to chest, nose to nose.

Her golden crown tilted as she glared up at him. "You will not touch me."

Allen tilted his head, smirking. "Too late."

She struggled—but only for a second. Her breath caught when his hand slid down her side, palming the curve of her ass, pulling her against the ridge of his cock. Her nipples were hard beneath the fabric. She hated him. She wanted him. She hated that she wanted him.

The crown fell.

Allen caught it before it hit the floor. He tossed it lazily onto the altar behind him. "You’re not a queen here."

Soreya snarled, "I am everything here."

But her body betrayed her. Her thighs parted as he walked her backward. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders. Her lips opened for his tongue when he claimed her mouth, and her nails dug into his shoulders when he lifted her onto the altar—onto the same slick surface soaked with priestess juices and god-seed.

She didn’t ask permission when she hiked her royal gown up to her waist. She didn’t speak when Allen’s cock rubbed between her folds, parting her open inch by inch. She moaned. Guttural. Choked. Furious with need. Her cunt sucked him in like it had been waiting, like the temple itself had saved a throne just for her defilement.

Allen grabbed her throat with one hand, held her down, and started thrusting—not gently. Not royally. He fucked her like she was another priestess, another altar to conquer. Her crownless head slammed against the stone with each stroke, her eyes wide, mouth slack, hair splayed in all directions.

Fina sat up and watched, biting her lip. "Looks like your queen’s got good hips."

"She’s clenching hard," Allen grunted, driving deeper, his balls slapping against royal skin. "Might be her first time being used."

"I hate you," the Queen gasped, tears slipping from her eyes as her body betrayed her over and over again.

Allen leaned close. "Then why are you coming?"

And she did—hard. Her back arched like a bow, her scream raw and regal and defiled. She squirted violently, soaking her own robes, the altar, even Allen’s chest. The throne groaned beneath her, drinking her down. Allen didn’t stop. He grabbed her hips and kept thrusting, faster now, harder, until she was a limp mess, sobbing and moaning and begging without words.

He came inside her with a snarl, hips jerking, cock twitching deep in the belly of Kashet’s most powerful woman. He held it there. Let it soak.

When he pulled out, her pussy drooled thick, warm cum. She shook on the altar, twitching as if possessed.

Allen leaned in, licking the sweat from her throat. "Now you’re mine."

And the Queen—no longer wearing her crown, her robes ripped, her womb full of a god’s gift—couldn’t argue.

The garden pulsed again.

Another priestess whimpered.

And the temple, far from satisfied, sighed in pleasure—hungry for more.

The sun never really rose over Kashet anymore. The light that filtered through the air was golden but heavy, thick with the breathless tension that came after moaning and screaming all night. The temple—no longer just a place of worship—throbbed like a living heart in the center of the city. Every cobblestone path led back to Allen.

Not the altar.

Not the throne.

Allen.

He didn’t need a crown. He wore divinity in the way his cock stretched queens open and left angels twitching in puddles of their own broken purity.

Allen stood near the grand window of the upper sanctum now, high above the city. Below, nobles gathered in forced reverence. They weren’t worshipping tradition anymore—they were waiting for their wives, daughters, and priestesses to stop crawling back to the temple every night to beg for the taste of the new god’s cum. Even the nobles’ sons came sometimes. Not to be blessed. But to watch. To learn what power really looked like.

Fina lay naked across the lounge, legs lazily spread, a trail of drying cum down her belly. Rinni curled at Allen’s feet like a loyal pet, her eyes half-lidded, still coming down from a ruined orgasm that had left her sobbing in tongues. Elira was kneeling by the throne, arms behind her back, tits streaked with inked insults that Allen had personally written across her skin just the night before: Soreya’s equal in shame. The angel’s footrest. Slut of the sanctum.

And speaking of angels.

The upper chamber door opened slowly.

She walked in—not with hesitation, but with a shattered grace. The angel from the realm beyond, the one who had once descended with flame in her wings and divine judgment in her eyes, now wore only thin silk that barely clung to her hips. Her once-lustless aura now pulsed with heat, every breath fogging with need.

Allen didn’t even turn to face her.

"Did I say you could walk?"

The angel dropped. Instantly. Her knees hit the marble and her wings trembled behind her, feathers still stained at the tips where he’d finished on her days ago.

"No, my king," she whispered.

Allen smiled, finally turning to look.

She was beautiful in the way only a holy creature could be—flawless, glowing, trembling with divinity and degradation at once. And yet, her thighs glistened like any other beastkin he’d taken. Her pussy throbbed like any other maid who begged for his cock. Her lips parted not to preach, but to pant.

He walked toward her slowly, letting the sound of his bare feet on the marble floor echo with authority. His cock was already hard—always hard now, like his body knew its only purpose was to fuck this world into obedience.

"Say it," he said, standing above her.

She swallowed. "I’m yours."

He tilted his head.

"I’m not heaven’s. I’m not holy. I’m not divine. I’m yours, Allen. Your cum-sleeve. Your angelic fuckhole. Your property."

Rinni moaned at those words from across the chamber, hips grinding against the floor like a bitch in heat. Even Elira whimpered, biting her lip.

Allen grabbed the angel’s hair and dragged her to the throne. He sat, legs spread wide, cock pulsing, and pulled her between them. "You remember what I said last time?" he murmured, smearing the tip against her lips.

She nodded, eyes fluttering. "You said I’d scream louder the next time. That you’d make my halo crack."

He shoved into her mouth, cutting off her words. Her wings flared out behind her, twitching as he face-fucked her like she was born for it. No divinity. No dignity. Just gagging, drooling, throatfucking until her eyes rolled back and her feathers dropped from the ceiling like snowflakes.

And then he pulled out—leaving her sobbing with spit and grace dripping from her chin.

"Turn around," he growled.

She obeyed instantly, planting her palms on the floor and arching her back. Her pussy was soaked, practically fluttering open for him. Allen spat on her asshole, spread her cheeks, and slammed in all the way—forcing a scream from her that echoed into the lower floors.

One thrust.

Two.

Then chaos.

Allen’s hips were a blur. His cock pistoned into her as her wings spasmed, halo cracking like glass behind her, and each time he bottomed out, her pussy clenched like it was trying to worship him from the inside. The other women in the room watched. Worshipped. Touched themselves.

Fina slid fingers into herself with a whimper. "She’s breaking... fuck... just like the Queen."

Rinni licked Allen’s thigh, eyes glazed. "She wants to be bred."

"Then she will be," Allen growled.

He grabbed her wings, using them for leverage, and slammed even deeper—fucking her into divine damnation. She screamed something in an angelic tongue, and Allen didn’t care to translate. He just used her.

Until he came.

Inside.

Hard.

Thick.

Filling her with a flood of unholy seed that dripped instantly from her cunt to pool at the throne’s base. She collapsed, twitching, whimpering praises into the marble like it was scripture.

Allen leaned back on the throne.

The Queen had begged to serve.

The angel had begged to be ruined.

The beastkin tribes feared him. The nobles obeyed him. And the temple had become a womb.

Not for prayers.

But for his empire.

And this was only the beginning.