The hall detonated.
Tankards slammed down like thunderclaps. Benches scraped back in a screeching chorus. Someone howled like a wolf that had just been promised steak, and in half a heartbeat the entire dining chamber was on its feet—roaring, laughing, stomping, the black marble floor trembling under the weight of a hundred heavy boots.
My stomach flipped over so violently I thought the food I’d just inhaled might stage a revolt.
Iskanda tilted her head back and took a long, lazy swig of ale, throat gulping audibly, dark hair spilling over her shoulder like liquid night.
She set the empty mug down with a deliberate slam that made the table jump and my heart leap straight into my mouth.
Before I could even squeak out a protest, her fingers closed around my wrist—cool, strong, impossible to argue with—and she hauled me off the bench. I stumbled after her, legs tangling, skirt fluttering like a flag of surrender I hadn’t agreed to wave.
"Iskanda—wait—haa—wait! What about your curse?" I yelped, voice cracking somewhere between panic and a laugh I couldn’t quite swallow.
She flicked me a sideways grin, eyes glittering with wicked amusement. "Oh please, I’ve already fucked half the people in this hall at least twice."
She said it so casually, like she was mentioning the weather, and the words failed me so completely that all I managed was a high, nervous giggle.
We reached the center of the room far too quickly. The crowd closed in around us in a loose, eager circle—mostly men, shirts already half-unbuttoned or outright discarded, belts clinking, boots scuffing, muscles flexing like this was some kind of ritual they’d been waiting for all week.
The women remained seated on the outskirts, perched on tabletops or leaning against pillars, cheeks pink, eyes bright with curiosity and just a hint of secondhand fluster.
I scanned the crowd frantically, praying to every saint I could name that neither Quentin nor Elvina had decided tonight was a good night for dinner and a show. Thank the gods, no sign of either.
My brain screamed at me to run but Iskanda’s palm cupped my cheek, thumb stroking slow, and suddenly the entire world narrowed to the warmth of her hand and the steady, predatory glint in her eyes.
"Are you scared?" she murmured, voice low enough that only I could hear.
I swallowed, lifted my chin, and lied through my teeth. "N-no... not even a little..." My voice wobbled like a drunken tightrope walker, but I sold it the best I could.
Her smile sharpened. "Good."
Then her fingers were at the laces of my blouse, quick and merciless, peeling fabric away like petals from a flower she intended to ruin with care.
Cool air kissed my skin layer by layer—shoulders, chest, stomach—until the last scrap of my skirt fluttered to the floor and I stood utterly, achingly naked in front of a dozen or so strangers.
A low whistle floated from somewhere to my left. Another to my right. Someone chuckled, deep and velvet-rough, and I felt my poor little cock give a mortified twitch, already leaking a shining thread down the inside of my thigh like it had decided to betray me at the worst possible moment.
"So the rumors were true," a voice rumbled, amused.
Heat exploded across my face so fiercely I was surprised my hair didn’t catch fire. I clutched my wrist in front of me, trying to preserve at least the illusion of modesty.
Iskanda stepped back then, completely unconcerned, and began stripping herself with the same lazy efficiency she did everything else.
Boots first, then her dress, then the tight wrap around her chest, until she stood gloriously bare, tan skin glowing under the lantern light, dark hair brushing the sharp lines of her shoulder blades.
Her cock—thick, half-hard, cursed and proud—swung heavy between her thighs, and the circle of men visibly leaned forward like flowers turning toward sunlight.
I couldn’t help it; my gaze darted around the full circle, drinking in the sheer insanity of their bodies.
Shoulders broader than doorframes, chests carved like statues some mad sculptor had decided needed extra veins, stomachs ridged and tight, arms thick enough to snap me in half without trying.
Nothing like the starved, hollow slaves from the lower layer—these were predators, every single one of them, and I was the trembling rabbit in the middle of the pack.
Iskanda planted her hands on her hips, surveyed the crowd like a queen choosing tribute, and tapped one finger against her chin.
"Hmm." The sound rolled out, slow and thoughtful.
Every man in the circle stilled, breath held, eyes hungry. She turned slowly, bare feet silent on the marble, and then stopped before pointing straight at the back of the crowd.
"You. Mountain of muscle. Front and center—now."
The circle parted like water before a warship and the orc who stepped fourth was a mountain given flesh—skin the color of wet forest moss, tusks glinting, shoulders so wide I wasn’t sure the laws of geometry allowed it.
And swinging between his thighs—gods have mercy—was a cock the size of my forearm, heavy even soft, swaying with each step like a club made for breaking castles.
My knees actually buckled. "Haa—oh gods no—"
For one wild second I thought I might faint and spare myself from whatever came next.
Iskanda didn’t even blink. She reached up, gripped the orc’s chin—had to stretch to do it—and yanked his face down to hers. "I want you to fuck my brains out until I paint this floor white. Understood?"
The orc’s only answer was a guttural grunt, steam curling from his nostrils, and that monstrous cock began to rise like a siege tower preparing for war.
I let out a slightly hysterical laugh—couldn’t help it—and then a new weight settled on my shoulder, heavy and warm. I glanced up—way up—and found Dominic grinning down at me, red hair wild, eyes sparkling with far too much confidence. "Looks like I get the pretty one after all," he rumbled.
Behind him, several other men started grumbling, shifting, clearly put out. Dominic lifted his free hand in a calming gesture. "Easy, lads. It’s fair game round here." Then he looked back down at me, expression softening just a fraction. "That all right with you, sweetheart?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Somewhere in the back of my skull a tiny, reasonable voice was screaming that this was insane, but the rest of me was already drowning in adrenaline, Iskanda’s scent, and the sheer reckless heat rolling off every body in the room. So I nodded—small, shy, probably pathetic—and whispered, "Y-yeah. That’s... that’s fine."
Dominic’s grin went sharp enough to split stone.
Iskanda turned back to me, eyes gleaming, and took my trembling hands in hers. She guided them to her hips—warm, smooth skin over hard muscle—and settled her own palms on my waist, thumbs stroking those same soothing circles.
"Hold tight to me now," she murmured.
Behind me, Dominic’s second hand came down on my other shoulder, grip firm, steadying.
"Take a deep breath, sweetheart," he growled against my ear.
I felt the blunt, scorching heat of him nudge between my cheeks—thick and coated—and then the world tilted as he pushed forward in one slow, relentless thrust.
"Ah~!" My breath punched out of me with a broken gasp.
My fingers dug into Iskanda’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. He didn’t stop until he was seated to the hilt, stretching me open, filling me so full I could feel my heartbeat fluttering around him.
At the same moment, the orc stepped in behind Iskanda. One massive hand settled on top of her head like she were nothing but a toy to him, and drove into her with a low, rolling growl that vibrated through the floor.
Iskanda’s back arched, lips parting on a soft, startled moan. "Nngh—yes—!" she gasped as her cock surged upward between us—fully hard now, flushed dark with a swell of precum pearling at the tip and smearing across my belly.
The rhythm started slow—experimental even—Dominic pulling back until only the head remained, then sliding home again with a wet, obscene sound that made my ears burn.
The orc matched his movements thrust for thrust, setting a steady, punishing pace that rocked Iskanda forward into my grip. Each time Dominic buried himself inside me, my body jolted, thighs trembling, and Iskanda’s cock dragged harder across my stomach, leaving glistening trails that cooled instantly in the air.
"Nnh—hah—ah—fuck!" I whimpered with every stroke, voice climbing higher.
"Just breathe, little wolf," Iskanda whispered against my temple, voice already fraying at the edges. "You’re doing wonderful. Just let it happen."
I tried. Saints, I tried. But every thrust sent sparks skittering up my spine, causing that familiar heat to pool low in my belly. My own cock bobbed neglected and began leaking steadily onto the floor between our feet.
Dominic’s hands slid down to grip my hips, fingers overlapping Iskanda’s, and he pulled me back harder, deeper, until I was caught perfectly between them—pinned, impaled, adored.
The crowd around us began to move—some stroking themselves, others pairing off, women slipping in to watch closer—but all I could see was Iskanda’s face, her eyes half-lidded, lips swollen, cheeks flushed dark rose against her tan skin.
Her breath hitched in little gasps that matched mine, and I realized we were moaning in unison—soft, broken sounds lost under the wet slap of skin and the low, constant rumble of voices.
Dominic leaned over my back, chest to my shoulders engulfing me, and growled against my neck, "Gods, you’re so tight~"
His hips snapped forward harder, and I cried out, high and thin, clinging to Iskanda like she was the only solid thing left in the world.
Iskanda laughed—breathless, delighted—then she lunged. Her mouth crashed into mine without warning, no gentle tease, no mercy. Her tongue shoved past my lips like she owned them, thick and demanding, forcing my jaw wider as she swallowed my muffled cries.
She tasted of salt and bitter ale; the flavor flooded me as her tongue speared deeper, curling possessively against the roof of my mouth, dragging over my teeth, pinning my tongue and fucking it into submission.
I tried to moan but the only sound that came out was a wet, strangled "mmph!" around the relentless thrust of her tongue. When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide.
I couldn’t help but whimper.
"That’s it," she panted. "Let them hear how good it feels. Let them all hear."
The orc grunted again, pace stuttering, and Iskanda’s body seized with a sudden gasp. Her cock pulsed once—twice—and then she was cumming, thick ropes painting my chest, my stomach, dripping down both our thighs in hot, messy streaks.
The sight—the feel, gods, the smell—sent me spiraling until my own orgasm crashed through me without warning, cock jerking untouched, spilling weakly between us while I shook and sobbed into the crook of her neck.
"Gods, I’m cumming—please—fuck!"
"Shit—!"
At last the orc roared, hips flush against Iskanda’s ass. I felt the shudder that ran through her as he filled her, Iskanda’s moan melding into my name—soft, wondering, possessive.
For a moment the entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
Then someone started clapping—slow, sarcastic—and the cheering erupted all over again, louder than before, wild, joyous, and utterly devoid of shame.
The instant Dominic yanked his cock free, my gaping hole spasmed on nothing, a shocking, aching void that punched the breath from my lungs and left me reeling like a gutted whore.
A heartbeat later, his broad palm cracked across my ass with a wet slap, branding the flesh with a searing print that tore a sharp squeal from my throat. My knees, those traitorous cowards, surrendered at once before folding like brittle parchment beneath me.
I sank in a graceless heap to the cool marble, thighs quivering uncontrollably, breath ragged in my chest as the thick spills of his seed began trickling out of me in slow, lazy rivers.
Iskanda lasted barely a heartbeat longer before her limbs betrayed her. She sank beside me with a low, sated groan, dark hair sticking to her sweat-slick shoulders, cock still half-hard and glistening between her thighs.
We lay sprawled there like ragdolls in the middle of the dining hall. The crowd’s roar dulled to a warm, buzzing hum around us.
I was still trying to remember how to breathe when Iskanda shifted up next to me, propping her head on one hand, and giving me that wicked, feline smirk that always meant trouble.
"Just look at you," she purred, voice husky and amused. "Drenched in another man’s load, cheeks flushed like a blushing bride, thighs shaking like a newborn foal. Gods, I could just eat you alive."
I opened my mouth for some half-assed retort—something sharp, something clever—but before a single syllable could escape me, a heavy, throbbing cock slapped across my face with a wet, meaty thwack that rattled my teeth.
"Hah~!" I yelped as a fat string of precum stretched from the stranger’s oozing slit to the bridge of my nose.
I blinked, peering up at a tall, bronze-skinned man with a scar splitting his left eyebrow and a grin sharp enough to shave with.
He chuckled, giving his cock a slow, lazy pump until another bead rolled down the underside and landed on my lower lip.
Three more closed in behind him, circling us like wolves smelling fresh desperation. One of them dragged the blunt head of his shaft along Iskanda’s jaw, painting her with a shining trail that made her hum in appreciation.
I hesitated, pulse hammering in my throat for a beat, before letting out a nervous giggle.
Iskanda flashed me a filthy grin, turned, and in one smooth motion, pressed a wet kiss to the cock in front of her before swallowing it to the root—nose buried in coarse pubes, throat bulging as she took every inch of him like she was born for it.
"Mmmglk—!" She muffled as her cock began jerking violently, slapping wetly against her stomach as she gagged and drooled around the stranger, cheeks hollow, throat pulsing visibly.
I watched, mesmerized, as she pulled back just slow enough to let the ropes of spit and precum stretch and snap between her swollen lips and his glistening tip.
Then she turned to me.
"Your turn," she rasped, voice wrecked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before wrapping those same fingers around the base of another cock and stroking with lazy confidence.
My hands moved on their own—shaky, clumsy, but determined—and closed around the two closest shafts, one velvet-hot and throbbing in my left palm, the other so thick my fingers barely met around it. The scarred man from before groaned, hips bucking into my grip.
"Fuck, that’s it—stroke me just like that, you perfect little slut," he hissed through clenched teeth.
We worked in tandem, Iskanda and I, trading breathless comments between strokes and licks like this were natural.
"You’ve got such delicate hands," she teased, tongue swirling around a flushed head before she sank down again. "Mmmph—glk—" she sounded before pulling back with a wet cough. "Bet you could make a saint renounce his vows with those fingers."
I snorted, rolling my wrist to watch the man in my left hand shudder and leak across my knuckles. "Please... haa~ If I had a coin for every poor boy who’s gone cross-eyed the moment I touched him, I’d be able to buy myself out of this cursed place." I leaned back with a lazy smirk. "Honestly, it feels like charity work at this point. Half these guys look like they haven’t been touched in decades."
Iskanda threw her head back and laughed, bright and delighted, but the sound fractured into a startled moan as the man she’d been stroking suddenly bucked and painted a thick, hot stripe across her cheek.
Cum dripped from her jaw in slow motion, clinging to her skin like liquid sin. I couldn’t help it—I snickered—high, mean, and utterly depraved.
"Oh, very regal. Truly majestic. You look like the patron saint of poor mistakes," I managed between giggles.
Her glare promised death. Her blush promised worse.
And because the gods hate me, the man next to me suddenly seized as well—apparently inspired by Iskanda’s disaster—and before I could even blink, something warm splashed across my lips in a quick, humiliating burst.
Cum flooded my mouth, sliding over my tongue and dripping off my chin in slow, sticky strands.
I squeaked, eyes crossing to glare at the still-spurting head hovering inches from my face.
The smell slammed into me like a battering ram—thick, pungent waves of raw musk, sharp and animalistic, mixed with the heavy tang of fresh sweat and the unmistakable briny bite of spent seed.
It was so dense it coated the back of my throat with every ragged inhale, like someone had bottled a dozen unwashed men after a week-long rut and cracked it open right under my nose.
"F-fuck—!" I choked, eyes watering as another rope splattered my nose. "Gods, why do you smell like that? It’s—nngh—it’s so thick! Fuck~!
The man let out a low, rolling chuckle that rumbled straight through his chest. "That’s it, pretty boy," he purred, voice thick with amusement. "Sniff it good. That’s the smell of a real man marking his territory."
That seemed to be the signal everyone had been waiting for.
The circle tightened—hands fisting hair, cocks aimed with gleeful precision—and suddenly we were drowning, thick ropes landing across my chest, my throat, my hair, painting sticky patterns over my thighs until I glistened like some obscene sculpture.
Iskanda wasn’t faring much better; her perfect breasts were glazed white, cum dripping from her stiff nipples in slow rivulets, sliding down the curve of her stomach to pool in the hollow of her navel before mixing with the mess leaking from her cock.
The last man in front of her gripped her hair, tilted her head back, and fed her his release in rapid, messy pulses that flew straight into her waiting mouth.
Iskanda swallowed greedily, tongue lolling out to catch the remainder of his spend. A single shining strand stretched from her lower lip to his tip when he finally pulled away.
She exhaled a slow, creamy breath that ghosted through the air before she giggled—actually giggled—like a girl who’d just been handed an unexpected present.
Before I could come up with anything clever, she seized my arm and yanked. We collapsed backward together in a tangle of limbs and sticky skin just as a fresh wave of men surged forward, cocks rigid and dripping, eyes filled with that feral hunger.
One of them—a wiry, dark-haired rogue with a crooked grin—dropped to his knees, grabbed my thighs, and hoisted my legs up over his shoulders.
For a single heartbeat, panic flickered; then something inside me, some reckless, shameless thing that Iskanda had spent days coaxing to life, stretched and purred.
I let my legs fall open wider, arched my back just enough to show off the mess leaking from my hole, and gave him the smuggest smile I could manage.
"Well?" I drawled, voice laced with fake bravado. "You just gonna stare at my sloppy cunt, or you gonna stuff that fat cock right where it belongs?"
The man’s breath hitched. Gods, he looked like I’d slapped him with pure lust.
With a scramble, he lined himself up before slamming home in one brutal thrust that drove the air from my lungs in a high, broken cry.
My cock sprang back to full attention then, slapping against my belly with every punishing stroke. I turned my head and found Iskanda in the same position—legs spread wide, another stranger buried to the hilt, her face flushed and ecstatic.
"Harder—gods, yes—don’t you dare fucking stop!" She chanted between moans.
Just then, without a word, we reached for each other. Our cum-slick fingers locked tight, trembling, and we held on like shipwrecked sailors clutching driftwood amid a raging storm.
The man inside me slowed, dragging out just enough to the point where I could feel every ridge of his cock scraping my oversensitive walls. My cock twitched helplessly in anticipation, before the man snapped his hips forward with such violence the sharp slap of skin echoed through the hall like a gunshot.
My back bowed; my cock jerked once, twice—and then I was cumming again, weaker this time, but just as sharp, pathetic stripes streaking my stomach to mingle with the mess already cooling there.
Iskanda’s grip turned bruising as she threw her head back and followed me over, her cock erupting in pretty arcs of cum that landed across her chest.
She laughed—bright, breathless, overjoyed.
When the man gripping me pulled out, I let my thighs fall open wider before reaching out with one hand to spread myself, feeling the thick glop of seed inside me spill out in a slow, filthy cascade that made the men watching me groan in appreciation.
Iskanda rose first, legs trembling only slightly, and extended one imperious hand down to me. I took it, let her haul me upright, and promptly began to wobble.
She steadied me with a palm between my shoulder blades before ruffling my ruined hair with the other.
"You did wonderful," she murmured, loud enough for the whole hall to hear.
Around us, the men collapsed in spent heaps, snoring or staring up at the ceiling with the glazed expressions of men who’d seen the face of divinity and lived.
The women on the edges looked equally wrecked—lips bitten red, fingers coated, skirts rucked up, quietly shaking themselves through their own aftershocks.
Iskanda scooped up our discarded clothes in one arm, apparently unbothered by the fact that half the hall’s bodily fluids were currently decorating us like war paint, and laced her free hand through mine.
We strolled—well, she strolled, I staggered—toward the archway, leaving sticky footprints on the marble.
Dominic, sprawled on a nearby bench with his cock still leaking lazily onto his thigh, raised his tankard in a lazy salute.
"To the prettiest pair of disasters I’ve ever seen," he called, voice rough with affection.
I flipped my cum-coated hair over one shoulder and shot him the smuggest, most satisfied glare I could muster while leaking from several sources.
Iskanda merely laughed, tugging me through the archway until we landed back in the cool, quiet heart of the Spire, the roar of the dining hall fading behind us like a dream I wasn’t quite ready to wake up from.