Everyone knew that Elf-Queen Sylene had risen to the throne of Tylia because of her tits and her cunt – or, more specifically, her udders and her womb.
Yes, she was the daughter of a minor noble line, trained in courtly manners, elegant and refined. Yes, she had some talent for statecraft, and was a valuable asset to the elven court.
But for a hundred years now, elven fertility had been in decline. Less elven children were being born. The Royal Physicians predicted that if nothing changed, the elven people would be functionally extinct within another century.
It was a crisis of national proportions – but its implications were especially dire within the Elven Court itself. King Thyabor was old, even for an elf, approaching his fifth century of life. Soon his immortal elven soul would burn free of its mortal shell and ascend to Elash, the eternal paradise of the elven gods.
And he was leaving behind no heir. None of his three wives – all now deceased – had delivered him a child, and the succession was in dire uncertainty.
So an urgent search was made for a new wife for the king. All women of noble birth were called to the palace, where they were stripped naked for the Royal Physicians to inspect their attributes. Sylene had been only 30 when these procedures had taken place – fully mature in every physical, emotional, and intellectual sense, but still culturally a child by the standards of the long-lived elves.
The physicians had declared Sylene to be unusually fertile, and of good health. She had then been displayed to King Thyabold. She had blushed as she stood nude before her sovereign, and lifted her tits for his appreciation, and spread her labia wide so that he could view the cunt that he hoped to impregnate. The king had been pleased, and Sylene had been wed to him within the week, taking up the mantle of Elf-Queen of Tylia.
She had loved being part of the court – helping to make laws and policies, gossiping with diplomats, holding royal state functions. She was pretty, and charming, and made friends easily – both the kind who genuinely liked her as a person, and the sort who were entranced by her elegant beauty, large breasts, and ethereal face, and held secret dreams of holding her down and raping her.
But Sylene’s true job, and her only real importance, was to make the King ejaculate inside her on a daily basis. Every morning and night she teased, cajoled, and worshipped her elderly husband’s cock until it became hard enough for her to ride it to climax. Then she used a set of beautiful mythril clips – provided by the Royal Physicians – to clip her pussy lips together and trap the cum inside her. It was painful, and a little humiliating, but the Physicians assured her it would give her the best chance of being impregnated.
But six months after her wedding, she was still not pregnant, and she began receiving dark looks from courtiers and court functionaries. At the end of the day, she was only as valuable as her womb, and if she couldn’t conceive, she had no business being at court.
At night she suffered nightmares of being called “barren” and “pointless”. In these dreams, the entire court raped her, and then cast her out, naked on the street, for the commoners to laugh at. She woke each day before dawn in a cold sweat of terror.
It was in this time that Red Horn came to her.
Red Horn was the most despised person in the elven court – because he was a Beastman. He came from a sprawling, thinly-populated tract of wasteland west of the Emerald Hills. His people – by the standards of the elves – were barbarous, uncivilized, and foul. They were nomadic, and had a reputation for savagery and banditry. The elves would have preferred to have nothing to do with them whatsoever – and yet, they controlled a non-essential but still very lucrative trade route to the Sea of Knives, and by playing nice with them and offering a small yearly tribute, the elven trade caravans were allowed to pass unmolested through Beastman territory.
Red Horn made Sylene shiver whenever she saw him. He had the body of a large, powerfully built man with black skin – but where a normal, sensible head should be, he instead had the furry head of a goat, complete with the long, curled red horns that were his namesake. His legs bent backwards, rather than forwards, and ended in cloven hooves matted with fur.
And his groin… this was perhaps the strongest source of the elven disgust for the Beastman. They wore no clothes at all, and even in the elegant opulence of the palace, Red Horn let his monstrous cock dangle in public view. It was larger by far than any elven penis – nine inches long, by Sylene’s estimation, and thick like a large sausage – and a milky white fluid was constantly dripping from its tip even when it was not erect.
Although it was always erect when Red Horn was talking to Sylene, and Red Horn made no secret of why. She did not think that the Beastman had ever looked her in the face, instead choosing to insolently stare at her tits when the two conversed.
“Your Majesty,” Red Horn said, stopping her in a corridor one morning. His voice was thick, inhuman, goatlike.
“Really, Red Horn, I have no time for this,” said Sylene testily, trying not to look at the monster’s hard, throbbing cock. “If you have business with the throne, I suggest you make an appointment.”
“Your Majesty may wish… discretion… around this meeting,” said Red Horn, still blocking the corridor. “It concerns your womb.”
Sylene flushed red. Her inability to conceive was a source of great humiliation, and to hear this *beast* dare to reference it filled her with rage. “Watch your tongue, animal,” she snapped.
If the Beastman was offended, he gave no sign. “Your Majesty, my people have many secrets. It would be my pleasure to offer one to you – a way to allow you to bear a child. You – and, if you will it, the rest of your nation.”
Sylene paused. Could this be real? A solution not only to her own fertility – but to the threatened extinction of the entire elven species?
“What are you talking about?” she said.
The Beastman produced a small vial of white liquid. “A cure,” he said. “An infusion of vitality and fertility. Take a dose every day, and I swear you shall bear a child.”
She looked at it suspiciously. “What price are you asking?” she said.
“For you, no price,” said Red Horn. “A gift, out of respect for the Queen. But when it works, perhaps you will wish to buy more? For all the women of your nation? And if so, then we shall talk the terms of a trade.”
She dithered. She knew the Beastman would never intentionally poison her. They had nothing to gain from provoking the elves, nor did they have the strength to resist the elven army if the elves truly wished to punish them. But nor did she entirely trust the potions of such a barbaric people. Who knew what the stupid savages called “medicine”?
She remembered her dreams again. She had little choice, really.
She took the vial. “Thank you, Red Horn,” she said. “This is a noble gift. I must take it every day, you say?”
Red Horn nodded. “I will have a supply delivered to your rooms.”
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The potion worked. It tasted strange – a little salty, musky, meaty – but Sylene swallowed a dose every day, and by the end of the fortnight the Royal Physicians pronounced her pregnant with the King’s child.
Sylene was overjoyed. A grand celebration was held for her pregnancy, and at the banquet she was gracious enough to present Red Horn with the Elven Medal of Valour for his services to the elven nation.
A deal was struck with the Beastmen. It was not cheap, and placed a substantial burden on the national budget, but what price could be put on avoiding extinction? Under the terms of the deal, a reliable supply of Red Horn’s miracle drug would flow into Thylia, enough to give every woman in the country a daily dose.
Sylene’s pregnancy ran its course, and on a beautiful spring day she gave birth to her first daughter, who she named Dastiya, meaning “the hope”.
By now, an unfortunate side effect of the fertility drug had been discovered – it was addictive. Once a woman had been taking it for a month or more, it was almost impossible for her to stop – the withdrawal side effects were agonising and humiliating. But the drug was plentiful, and there was little reason for anyone to need to stop using it.
Sylene used some harsh words in a meeting with Red Horn, chastising him for not telling her about the addictive qualities. Red Horn replied that it wasn’t addictive for Beastmen – it appeared to be a unique interaction with elven physiology. And anyway, did she not only need to look out her window and see the many elven women with pregnant bellies to know that it was worth the cost?
Sylene was forced to agree.
Only a month later, Sylene was pregnant again.
Her second daughter was named Ellora, meaning “the flower”.
Ageing King Thybold had a statue commissioned of Sylene, called “The Hope of the Nation”, for her role in bringing fertility back to the elven people. Sylene thanked him copiously for his praise – with words during the day, and with her cunt later that night – but in all honesty she found the actual statue humiliating and degrading. It depicted her nude and kneeling, with a swollen pregnant belly, and large lactating breasts that were visibly leaking milk. The statue was looking up at the sky, indicating her submission to the will of the elven gods, and her mouth was open in what was supposed to be the words of a prayer, but looked uncomfortably as if she were about to have the gods ejaculate in her mouth.
She fell pregnant again almost as soon as Ellora had been born, and when her third daughter arrived in due course, she named her Liri, “the beauty”.
That was her last pregnancy. By the time Liri was born, the last of King Thybold’s virility had left him, and he could no longer hold an erection. Over the following years, as Sylene raised her beautiful daughters, Thybold slipped further and further into senility – a long process, as all things are with elves – and on the day following the 30th birthday of his youngest daughter, Liri, in the medical chambers of the Royal Physicians, King Thybold finally passed over to Elash.
Sylene received the news of his passing during her nightly masturbation session in her private bedchamber. During her years of trying to be impregnated, she had become used to being penetrated every night, and now she found it hard to sleep without fingerfucking herself for a half-hour or so each evening. There was a knock at the door, and a solemn sentence delivered by a Royal Physician – “Your Majesty, the King your husband has passed.”
Sylene pulled her fingers from her pussy, and leaped to her feet. She grabbed the mythril cunt-clip from her bedside table and applied it to her labia – she had become so accustomed to having her fuckhole clamped shut during her time at the court that she had continued to do it even after there was no sperm to keep inside her.
And she set about the business of dealing with the death of a king.
The next days were frantically busy. There was a funeral to plan, various state events to do with the transfer of power. She would no longer be the spouse of the ruler, but the ruler in truth. Formal documents needed to be issued, proclamations made.
And of course, her own grief to process, and that of her daughters. King Thybold had been an old and distant king, and he had married her just to impregnate her, but he had been kind, in his way. She found her feelings were mixed, and confusing.
One relief from that stress was in her evening sessions of masturbation.
She was fingering her cunt on the third day after her husband’s death when the door to her bedchamber burst open without warning. She sat up, squealing in outrage – and turned pale when she saw who it was.
Red Horn, his cock erect, was striding into her bedchamber. The door swung closed behind him.
In the thirty years since he had given her the fertility drug, Red Horn had grown older, becoming a magnificent mature specimen of his people. His fur had greyed, his horns had grown longer, and a long beard of white hair hung from his chin.
His cock was still as huge and threatening as ever.
“Your Majesty, we need to talk,” he rumbled. “About my new role at the court, as Royal Advisor and head of your Grand Council.”
Sylene scrambled, trying to cover her pussy. She was still wearing her white corset – they were a pain to remove and put back on – but she had removed her long skirt-dress and her underwear, the better to service her cunt. She grabbed a pillow now, and held it futilely over her groin.
“What nonsense is this?” she said. “Royal Advisor? Head of my Grand Council? As if I would ever grant these roles to a Beastman! You forget yourself, Red Horn!”
“I do not think I do,” said Red Horn. He strode across the room, and grabbed her by her hair.
Sylene’s eyes widened. How dare he! How could this be happening? She opened her mouth wide, to scream for her guards – not yet having realised that Red Horn must have paid off the guards to get as far as her bedchamber in the first place – and as soon as her mouth opened, Red Horn stuffed his cock into it.
She gagged, and screamed impotently, the sound muffled by the mouthful of Beastman dick. Red Horn held her hair, stopping her from pulling her head away. She beat at him with her hands, but she may as well have been beating at solid brick – the Beastman was a veritable mountain compared to her slim elven form.
He began to pump her head up and down on his cock, and she wailed with despair. She was sucking the cock of an *animal*. A *savage*. A *monster*. She was the queen of an entire elven nation, but she was being raped by a *barbarian*. She felt herself start to weep.
“Taste anything you recognise, your Majesty?” asked Red Horn. She couldn’t read the facial expressions of Beastmen, but Sylene thought he sounded amused.
What was he talking about? Taste anything she recognised? All she tasted was the cock of a disgusting goat-thing. A goat-thing that she would have executed, as soon as this ordeal was over.
Except… it did taste familiar. Salty. Musky. Meaty.
Just like her fertility drugs.
Terrible, horrible realisation began to wash over her.
“That’s right, your Majesty,” said Red Horn. “Our king has a number of captive elven women in his harem. When he noticed that they became pregnant from his rape at an astonishing rate, bearing him half-elven beast-children almost as fast as he could fuck them, he became curious – and we soon realised that Beastman cum has a remarkable fertility effect on elven women. When you told us that it was addictive as well, that was just an added bonus.”
Sylene truly was crying now – crying at what she had done to herself, had done to her people.
“You’ve been drinking my sperm every day for 30 years, your Majesty,” said Red Horn. “And you’ve been feeding Beastman cum to the women of your nation for all that time. How do you think your people will react when they discover the truth?”
Sylene tried to plead with Red Horn, but with a mouthful of cock it was only incoherent mumbles.
He pumped her head up and down on his cock faster now. The tip was slamming against the back of her throat, making her want to gag.
“And how do you think it will go,” he asked her, “when we stop the supply of cum? When every woman in the country goes into devastating withdrawal at the same time? And your nation becomes infertile once again?”
Sylene’s tears flowed down her face – even as she realised her body was telling her it was eager for Red Horn to cum in her mouth, and give her her daily dose of the addictive sperm.
“I wonder if they’ll just kill you,” said Red Horn, “or torture you and kill you, or rape you and *then* torture you and *then* kill you.”
Sylene sobbed into Red Horn’s groin.
“For a century, you elves have spat upon the Beastmen,” said Red Horn. “We have suffered your racism and your contempt and your humiliation. And you have been the worst of them, Bitch Queen. You have barely looked at me, except to fantasise about my cock. I hope your fantasies are coming true now.”
He fucked her face harder, and faster.
“After I cum in your mouth,” he told her, “you will swallow. And then you will say, ‘Thank you, sir, I’m a stupid elven cunt.’ And then you will go and draw up the papers that appoint me to the role of Royal Advisor and head of the Grand Council – a recognition in my important role in the continuing vitality of this country, if you need a reason. And thereafter, you will take your dose of drugs directly from my cock each day, and you will do as you are told, and together we will see about shaping your racist, stuck-up nation into something much more appropriate.”
And with that, he orgasmed, ejaculating down the Queen’s throat. It was a flood – a forceful hose of sperm, far greater in volume than anything her husband had ever produced.
She gagged, but swallowed, and when he allowed her to withdraw from his cock, she looked up at him and said, “Thank you, sir. I’m a stupid elven cunt.”
“Good bitch,” said Red Horn. “Now let’s get the new elven nation started, shall we?”
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