Queen Nietz sat upon her gilded throne, her apron-belly blessing her thighs with wild, bronze sweat. The day had ridden this hot all cycle long, and sitting under the royal gazebo had done fleetingly little. Not even the fanning slaves provided relief. Such was the fate of the Queen of Karryway; a highness always in demand. It was the penultimate judgement of the dozing afternoon. Four prisoners of war but steps from the dais, those whose fate was to be sealed with one wave of the Queen’s bejeweled hand.

She called the first three to approach. They were in rugged, athletic form. Currents of muscle swam through their bodies, like the generations precedent that passed down their enormity. Any of them could with one twitch barrel out of the throne room into escape. But the queen liked her pets obedient, and these had come out just perfect. So much flesh to trouble.

“Good. Remove yourselves.”

The largest of the three prisoners, holding all of their chains, yanked them all away, passing without a word into the shades in the eaves. A door’s hinges whined.

To Queen Nietz little was more satisfying than reducing power. The vacant blurs in their eyes gave her something she could not name. Adjacent to satisfaction. Something close to need. It ever so softly danced over love. It was in her decrees,  in her garden. It lived between her thighs and it crept into her moment-to-moment. One day, she knew, her thirst would kill her. But the day was coming to a close. She would sate herself another night. Such was the fate of the Queen of Karryway. The stupid fools.

“Step forward.”

This one was a waif, barely eaten of anything at all. Thirteen weeks, they said. By Queen Nietz’s judgement, a certain and punishable offense. The queen and her tell-tale grin seemed to swallow the prisoner right up.

Nietz adjusted her position. Quakes rippled over her breasts, tummy, and thighs until she rested a heavy elbow on her knee. “What,” asked she, “can we make for you?” Behind the throne through double swinging doors, the Royal Kitchen lived industriously. It ran frantic like a forever rattling chain, moving, moving, workers constantly swapping positions and orders and shifts. Suddenly an oblong, silver cart of food exploded into the throne room A whole roasted pig. Hundreds of flavors of candy in more than double the colors. Chocolatefalls of torrential sweetness, begging, begging for just one—simply one—mouth to catch some of its preciousness.

The wan waif fell to her knees. Her arm seemed to reach out of its own accord.

“Corruption,” she yowled, clawing at her betraying limb, “corruption!” Skin gave way to rivulets of dark blood.

“An unluckiness of months lies behind you,” mused the queen. “Sate yourself.” Those were always the magic words for the religiously thin. Sate yourself. As if the thin knew what it was to be sated.

And indeed Queen Nietz’s spell worked its tremendous and terrible magic. The prisoner leapt to the cart, tore a haunch from the hog, and sank her glassy teeth crisply inside. She chewed not enough. She moaned like a starved animal. She was weak, feeble, gluttonous. So terrible was the weight of starvation that she sloughed food into her mouth like a whale. 

With her words the queen could pierce through anything, even unknown years of practice and dogma.

In three minutes, the waif was slipping on splashed-out chocolate, smearing stains of sauce and sugar across her body, sobbing. From her eyes came the stream of unabashed sorrow that arrives only with the death of faith. Babbling was all the stuffed waif could do—and they all start out this way—babbling and shaking. How they look like winded branches grown round with sudden fruit!

Her Majesty was pleased.

“What is your title?”

“Woman-at-arms, thou silence be my steel.”

The smirk that tore across Queen Nietz’s face pried open her lips. 

It was over. The rest was just icing.

“And your name.”

“M-Maia Thorn—”

The Queen of Karryway raised her hand, arresting the waif’s words, then rested the hand on her stomach.

“Know you what is done to liars in the Court of Karryway?” said the queen. “We give them dirt. We stuff them so full with soil that when we bury them they grow sugarcane. Set right your mind.”

Silence did hold the waif momentarily, but she soon whimpered out her name, and so did say the queen.

“From the South,” continued the queen. “From a hamlet named Cory. The daughter of a Sister of the High Church. Wife to a mason named Darrin and a mother to five children. In peacetime you spend your days at temple. You pray for safety; you pray for purpose.” Queen Nietz snapped her fingers. The jangle of chains rattled through the room, their carriers stepping out of the eaves. As the muscle-bound men reappeared, the waif made a scramble to her feet. She stumbled and fell to her knees, and then she was taken blubbering away. The Queen sighed as the door squealed shut. Now shadows reached long across the royal chamber. The sun sat bubbling on the pink horizon. 

Queen Nietz rose from her throne with her swinging, ponderous breasts,  sighing at the good day’s work finished. From her nipples she popp-ed away the royal golden caps to massage her tender flesh. Oohs and ahhs—quite tender indeed. 

With a flick of her wrist and a snap of her fingers Queen Nietz summoned her day-end slave. The day-end slave hopped out of the  eaves of the throne room and bounded up to the Queen. He was tall, lank, thinner than the waif, yet his face was almost as round and puffy as the Queen’s. He wore a butler’s get-up, but never seemed to quiet or sit still. Affixed to the day-end slave was a board horizontally balanced under his chest, like a small, precarious table.

“Have you your materials?” barked the Queen.

Enthusiastically the day-end slave nodded. “Forever, my Queen,” he said. “Never a day passes that I am not ready.”

The Queen inclined her head and the day-end slave pranced so that he stood before the Queen, eyes below her neckline. Then, with tremendous effort, for that part of the Queen was so large, the day-end slave heaved the Queen’s stomach atop his board. Such was the state of affairs that Queen Nietz’s enormous breasts hung over the slave’s shoulders, slick, sweaty, and musky. 

The day-end slave slid his hands into his Queen’s wet belly folds, produced from his vest pocket a small vial. He uncorked it and let the cerulean droplet splash without sound on Queen Nietz’s back. 

Instantly Queen Nietz felt relief. The stress of decree left her skin such that she slumped drowsily against the slave. “Good porter, bringing your Queen her liqueur,” she huffed. “Bring in the bull.”

“Yes, my Queen.” Struggling to maintain anything resembling composure, the day-end slave hefted the Queen’s stomach off of his platform, and allowed her breasts to slither heavily down his shoulders. 

Queen Nietz watched her slick, sweaty, day-end slave stumble into the stretching shadows. She loved what she did to men. Cultural engineering had rendered these small and weak men utterly subservient to their  masters. 

With one jiggle, Nietz could have felled armies. 

Again, a door creaked open, clicked shut. The Queen heard the tell-tale scrape of her favorite slave’s hooves. She peered towards the sound and found two yellow eyes gazing back at her from the shadows; they focused and still.

Nietz smiled in a lustful menace, and the bull snorted.

“Approach,” Nietz commanded. “A mighty beast along a long ‘n’ arduous, besotting road becomes a frustrated soul.” 

The bull ground his hooves into the throne room’s marble floor. One, two, three squealing revs of hoof kicking the metamorphic rock. He charged. Out of the darkness the bull came, thick chest hair braced back against rippling abdominal musculature,  broad shoulders and wide hips in full rhythmic marriage. A pained bellow. The scars across the bull’s body, raking claw marks, coiling whip strikes, seemed to whiten against his bluish hide. I

Inches from Queen Nietz, the bull came to a halt. Steamy breath shot out of its train-engine nose.

Queen Nietz looked up at the bull and commanded him kneel, and without a second thought the bull knelt, a knight swearing fealty. “Good boy,” Nietz said as if the subjugation was inevitable.

In the waning sun of the day, streaks of gold were dying against the horizon. Some of them still fooled their way into the throne room, and these fell upon the Queen and her bull and his featureless, black eyes. The twilight fell on the many tattoos that danced and slithered around the Queen’s body: a snake, whose head was the Queen’s right thumb, who twisted all around that arm; the crest of the Kingdom of Karryway. The snake nipped at the bull’s horns.

The bull’s eyes were filled with a terrible lust, glazed over with it. Behind them was the spark of creativity, but that spark had been maimed long ago. No being in the castle but the bull was to look into the Queen’s eyes, and perhaps this is why.

“Rise,” said the Queen, and the bull did. “Come,” and did come the bull. She lead him back to her throne, gilded and plush, and commanded him to sit down.

The bull was unsure. Beings who sat in the Queen’s throne… the bull had never heard of such a thing. But the bull obeyed, nervously. Carefully he lowered himself onto the plushness of the royal seat. His heart felt like it would beat out of his chest. For no moment did he take his eyes off of the Queen, who sat her entire, ponderous weight on the bull’s lap. He grunted, but then he moaned. Grinding back and forth, squeezing his stiffening cock between her wet thighs, Nietz giggled. “You love your Queen,” she purred.

The bull nodded submissively.

“Show her your love then, beast. Show her your love.”

So the bull wrapped his enormous arms around Nietz, just under her breasts, and dragged her closer to him. Nietz’s labia spread to accommodate his longitudinal girth, and she huffed when the bull’s throbbing flare flicked against her clit, and she moaned when he licked her gooseflesh neck. She raised her hands and pulled the bull by the horns into a contorted kiss.

The bull’s hands pressed into the Queen’s large tummy. He knew the Queen loved her bruises. He clutched at her and she squealed He could feel her utter wetness—he could smell it even clearer. Red began to border his vision. He snorted and gripped the queen on either side of her stomach and speared her down to his balls.

The Queen screamed.

Then, without effort, the bull raised her by her pillowy ass, and let gravity do its work. He bellowed a low, growling moo, and soon the Queen was babbling for more. The smacks of bull-balls against Queen-ass tore across the Capitol of the Kingdom of Karryway.

For the bull, such acts were a release two-fold. Sexually, the orgasm was strong and exhausting, but fucking the tyrant queen into incoherence was itself a release. He was a slave just like the rest of the Queen’s attendants, but pulling  Neitz’s hair like one might grab a misbehaving cat, or smacking a hand-shaped bruise over her nipple gave him palpable pleasure.

“Fuck me,” said the Queen. “Give me your calves!”

“’Give me your calves’,” he thought. “As if cows have litters.”

When the bull had finished with the Queen, she was leaking copious amounts of his cum. Bent over the side of her throne, Queen Neitz panted loudly, each puff rippling parts of her. She had become non-verbal with a dopey, unfocused face.

With a snort of his breath, the bull began to walk away, down the scarlet steps of the dais, into the dark throne room eaves, but the Queen stopped him with a  shout.

“The morning holds news for you,  bull. Waste no time arriving in the morning.”

The bull slowed for a moment, considering. But  he shook his head and left.

The day-start slave found Queen Neitz spread over her throne, still leaking semen.