This was a room where my father hurt humans and korabi alike. I am christening it with pleasure, claiming more than my human as my territory. I am erasing some of the cruelty of the past.
I lay her over a small, bedded area. It is designed to hold the weight and size of a korabi warrior. She fits on it easily.
“Krush?”
“Quiet,” I order gently, running my claws through her hair.
I want to feel what it is like to take a prisoner and hurt them. I will not hurt her. Not the way my father did. But I can play at it. I can drink in some of the experience.
I know he was sick. I know the courtiers and nobles who served him were similarly sick. I am surrounded by those who condoned, and in all likelihood, enjoyed what my father did with blades and saws, chemicals designed to induce agony, and more. There is no limit to what one can inflict on a living being if one simply uses one’s imagination.
“Sire…”
“Yes?”
“Your eyes," she swallows. “They’ve gone so dark.”
"There can be pleasure in the dark.” I run my claws up the inside of her thigh. I enjoy stroking her. Petting her. I enjoy feeling the way she trembles and quivers when I touch her. Some of it is fear. But more of it is anticipation.
She likes this. She likes me. She hungers for me, as I hunger for her. This is the last thing I expected when I saw her dumped at my feet, her wounded form supplied to me, a scrap for my vengeance.
This human has become a distraction to be sure, but a welcome one.
I take the blade which my father once used to peel skin from his victims. It is impeccably clean, and an unholy kind of sharp. I lift it up and I hold it where she can see it.
“Are you trying to scare me?”
"I am scaring you,” I tell her. “It is impossible not to be scared in this room with these tools. There are screams embedded in these walls.”
She looks at me, curious. She only has the one eye, but that eye holds enough emotion for two. I feel myself gripping the knife tighter. I thought I would understand the joy of torture if I just had the right subject. What better subject than her? The thought of it turns my stomach. Hurting her would be like hurting myself. There is no way around it.
“He was a monster.”
"Your father?”
“Yes.”
She looks at me with that pretty, clear blue gaze. “Are you?”
“A king must be a monster if he wishes to rule, my sweet little human.” I put the knife down.
Instead of using any of these implements, I use my mouth. I slide between her thighs, my mouth finding the softness of her lower lips. I must be careful. My teeth are as sharp as that blade, and I could easily damage this sensitive tissue if I were to slip. My tongue finds the core of her so easily. I taste myself there. When I filled her, I filled her to the very center. She is dripping me.
I hear her moan in the same place my father once made his captives cry. I am not him, and she is not the kind of captive he would have taken. He would have crushed her without a second thought. Rejected her for how broken she already was. I rejoice in her sensitivity. She is absolutely perfect, in spite of the fact that she has been hurt before.
I have been hurt before. Her wounds somehow mimic mine. With her, I feel safe. A strange thing for a king to feel. I should feel safe absolutely everywhere and always. But I do not. I have felt exposed and on edge every moment of every day since my father died.
At first, I thought it was a simple case of distraction, and maybe even pity. I cup her ass, and I draw the swollen, wet chalice of her sex against my lips. I could eat her for an eternity. Every delicate fold of her pussy is a place to explore with gentle swipes and swirls of my tongue.
My cock is rock hard throughout this oral interrogation which leads to no confessions whatsoever besides the arching of her hips and the wailing emerging from her lips. Fresh flows of her desire coat my tongue. I take her inside me. I eat her. I consume her without harming her in any way.
She bucks in orgasm and I know I have to have her. My rod will not be satisfied until it is buried back inside her. The palace is where I live, but this human has somehow managed to become the physical manifestation of home.
I rise over her, pull her toward me by the hips and waste no time in thrusting my cock inside her. I immediately feel the buttery hot flesh of her sex wrapped around me, gripping me. Her eye is locked on me, her mouth open in a soft pout of excitement and desire. She wants this. She wants me.