Elara and Phalan.

The stone corridor echoed with hurried steps: Faelan, a young soldier in the army of King Brennus, appeared around the corner. Sweat clung to his forehead under his leather helmet, strands of dark hair. The patrols were tedious, but necessary, especially near the princess's chambers. His thoughts returned to the forbidden rumors that were whispered among the guards: the king's third daughter, Princess Elara, had a savagery that was suppressed by royal decree. Her engagement was on the horizon, a political instrument, and the law was immutable. Virginity lost before marriage meant death by strangulation in castle dungeons, followed by dismemberment and dumping into the stormy

River Curray. A shiver ran through him. Such thoughts were a betrayal.

He ​​almost collided with a frail figure running out of a side passage. A maid dressed in coarse, undyed wool, with her head tightly wrapped in a linen cap that covered most of her face. Her eyes, wide and startlingly green, met his gaze for a moment before looking away. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she muttered in a hoarse but strangely refined voice.

Falan grunted his appreciation as he passed by. But something pricked him - the curve of her cheek under the rough fabric, the unnatural grace in her hasty gait. He froze as he watched her disappear down the narrow staircase that led to the rarely used storerooms near the barracks wing. Guards weren't forbidden from flirting with servants... but with princesses it was different. A dangerous suspicion arose. He knew the rumors about the adventures of Elara, in disguise, trying to escape from her gilded cage. The thrill of pursuit fought with primal fear. Curiosity won. He followed her silently.

The pantry was dark and smelled of dust, dry herbs and old wood. He saw her standing among the bags of grain, her back to him, her shoulders tense. When he entered, blocking the passage, she turned around sharply. Panic flashed in her green eyes, then turned to defiance. She lowered her cap, revealing a cascade of fiery red hair and delicate, aristocratic features, unmistakable even in the darkness. Princess Elara.

— Go away, soldier,” she ordered in a trembling voice, despite the ostentatious authority. "You didn't see anything.

Falan's breath caught. The risk was colossal. The discovery meant death for both of them - for him for desecrating royal power, for her for abandoning her virginity. Yet the sight of her, vulnerable and defiant in the rough fabric, released a flood of desire that he had buried under strict control. Her disguise spoke of a reckless longing, a thirst that reflected his own restless spirit, tormented by the rules of the army. He saw not just a princess, but a woman risking everything for the taste of a forbidden sensation.

— You seek death, princess,” Faelan said in a low and hoarse voice. He locked the pantry door behind him with a heavy *clang*. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. Her defiance wavered, replaced by a glimmer of fear... and something darker, more searing. Anticipation.

— I seek freedom,” Elara countered, stepping forward with her chin raised. “Brief, stolen moments... before I'm caged forever. My guards... are frustratingly cautious." Her gaze slid over Faelan's lean, muscular body, lingering on the mound bulging under his trousers. "You don't look careful.

The air crackled. Faelan moved closer, his calloused hand grasping her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. He saw the dangerous game reflected in her—her need for intensity, her desperate clinging to life before debt crushed her. He saw the terrifying appeal of her absolute vulnerability combined with the royal fire. His own restraint collapsed. He couldn't suggest caution. He could offer oblivion.

He ​​kissed her fiercely, swallowing her sigh. Her response was instant, furious - her nails scratched his neck, her body arched towards him. Rough hands tore at the maid's simple dress, pulling the rough fabric from her shoulders to reveal creamy skin that glowed faintly in the dusty light. He turned her around, pressing her face to a stack of sacks of grain. The rough burlap scratched her cheek. He pulled the dress and thin underwear down to her knees, revealing the perfect pale hemispheres of her buttocks. His thumbs dug into the tender skin, spreading her buttocks, exposing the tight pink fold of her anus.

Elara whined, pressing her forehead harder against the bag. Fear fought with desperate excitement. This was something different, dangerous. *Strong*. This is exactly what she risked her life for. Thoughts of the dungeon, of the rope, of the river... they dissolved under a wave of sensations when Falan spat on his fingers, and then pressed one thick finger tightly against her forbidden entrance. She cried out, screaming in shock and intense pleasure.

The finger, lubricated with saliva, tensed sharply, burning, breaking through her resistance. Elara gasped, her body instinctively tense at the brutal violence. However, a wilder instinct made her pull away, rubbing against his hand, craving *more* of the forbidden sensation. Faelan watched as a wave of conflicting emotions ran across her face - fleeting panic, drowned in an intensifying blush and dilated pupils. He added a second finger, mercilessly stretching the tight ring, enjoying her strangled sobs mixed with a guttural moan. Her hips jerked involuntarily.

— What a greedy hole, princess,” Faelan growled, his own arousal throbbing painfully against her thigh. He withdrew his fingers, leaving her to clutch at the void. The rough sound of trousers being unlaced filled the dusty air. He spat into his hand again, generously lubricating his swollen member. The thick, veiny shaft, darkened and shiny, pressed tightly against her trembling entrance. Elara rested against the bags, white knuckles, ragged breathing. Thoughts of the strangler's rope flared up - the cold, rough hemp biting into her neck - but they were erased by his mere *presence*, the promise of destruction.

— Give it to me,” she demanded in a voice full of desire and challenge. "Hard. Now.

He ​​needed no further invitation. With a grunt born of unbridled need and reckless passion, Faelan thrust his hips forward. The broad head broke through her clenched muscles with one brutal thrust. Elara screamed, the rough, tearing sound being swallowed up by the sacks of grain. It wasn't just pain; it was a lightning bolt of sensation, tearing her apart, a violence so deep that it laid bare her soul. She felt unbearably full, stretched to the limit, a burning sensation burning deep inside. Tears welled up in my eyes, mixing with the dust on my cheek.

He ​​began to move. First with short, wild thrusts, each of which caused Elara to scream hoarsely, each retreat made her desperately clench around him. Gradually the rhythm became deeper and longer. The burning pain, although it did not disappear, began to transform. Layer by layer, it morphed into something else: a deep, scraping friction that scratched at nerves she never knew existed. The pressure in my lower abdomen grew, intense and undeniable. Faelan grabbed her hips so hard they left bruises, holding her down as he thrust into her tight channel. The slap of skin on skin, his moans, her muffled sighs echoed throughout the pantry. He watched her ass pulsate with each thrust, the mesmerizing rhythm of her pale flesh yielding to his force.

Elara's screams changed. Less pain, more despair. The ring inside her was clenching ever tighter, fueled by the relentless blows, the absolute *wrongness* of it, the dizzying danger. Her fingers scratched at the rough burlap. Her body betrayed her composure, sweating, shaking, desperately thrusting back on his cock, searching for that elusive spark. Fear - of exposure, of death - became a perverse aphrodisiac, intensifying all sensations. She *felt* alive, truly alive, for the first time in her gilded cage.

Falan felt her inner muscles begin to quiver and clench uncontrollably around him. My breath caught. He thrust harder, deeper, tilting his hips with each painful thrust to rub against that hidden bundle of nerves. A guttural scream escaped Elara's throat, only partially muffled by the bags. Her body shook violently, her back arched impossibly as her orgasm exploded. It wasn't gentle; it was a seismic eruption, tearing through her heart like a wildfire, blinding and violent. Her legs gave way, only his iron grip kept her upright, while wave after wave of unbearable pleasure-pain shook her, making her gasp, shudder, and sweat drip onto the trampled earthen floor.

The sharp contraction of her orgasm drove Falan over the edge. With a roar that sounded more like beast than man, it burrowed incredibly deep and erupted. Hot, thick streams of seed flooded her most intimate corners, abruptly hitting the walls. He held there, grinding against her exhausted body, enduring wild pleasure, until the last trembling subsided.

The expulsion was slow, sliding. Falan stepped back, panting, watching as a thick stream of his seed erupted from Princess Elara's tortured entrance and made a glistening trail down her inner thigh. This sight caused a new surge of possessiveness in him, mixed with cold horror at what they had just dared to do. Elara bent over, pressing her forehead tightly against the rough burlap, trembling, her knuckles turning white where she gripped the burlap. Breathing came out in intermittent wheezing, interrupted by quiet, involuntary sobs. The powerful aftershocks of her orgasm were still shaking her, the deep, throbbing pain mingling with the searing pain of her stretched passage. Motes of dust danced in the rays of weak light piercing the twilight of the pantry, settling on her bare skin and fiery hair. The silence stretched on, thick with the musk of sex and fear.

Faelan shoved his pants back into place, the rough fabric scratching his hypersensitive skin. My thoughts were racing feverishly. Princess. Desecrated. Anally. If they get caught... The hand instinctively reached for the dagger at his belt. Will he protect her? Will he kill himself to quickly silence him? Or will he die next to her? The image of the strangler’s rope flashed before his eyes, rough hemp biting into the pale royal skin. He lowered it. Action. Control. That's what the soldier knows.

He ​​grabbed her shoulder, turning her roughly. Elara stumbled, her legs trembling, the rough maid's dress bunched awkwardly in her lap. Her face was flushed, tear-stained, and stained with dust. But under the tousled hair, the green eyes burned with a fierce, rebellious brilliance, brighter than before. No regrets, not yet. Celebration? Thirst? Faelan did not hesitate. He pushed her down. Weak from the experience, she bent her knees and landed on the hard-packed dirt floor with a soft thud. She looked at him in fear, and a hint of vulnerability flashed across her face. Before she could speak, Faelan fisted her tangled red hair, throwing her head back sharply, exposing her thin neck.

— You took it well, princess,” he growled, his voice hoarse from faded passion and residual adrenaline. “But I don’t owe you anything.” With his other hand he freed his cock again. It had begun to soften, but was still thick, wet from sweat and her own secretions. He roughly brought the head to her bruised lips, spreading the moisture over them. "Open up.

Elara hesitated for a split second. The taste of his skin, musky and salty, filled her mouth as his thumb pressed insistently against her bottom teeth. The humiliation was acute - kneeling on the dirty floor, defenseless, painful, forced to serve the soldier who had just brutally taken her anus. And yet the danger excited her again. It was *real*. It was the rough edge she craved, far from court whispers and political maneuvers. She obediently opened her mouth, her tongue instinctively slipping out to taste him, and this action sent a new wave of arousal through her exhausted body.

Falan didn’t wait. He pushed all the way into her. He wasn't gentle. He plunged deep into her mouth, through her teeth, through her gag reflex, plunging to the hilt into her throat. Elara gasped, her eyes immediately watering. Her hands instinctively shot up to grab his hips, her nails digging into the worn leather of his breeches. He held her head tightly, rubbing against her face, completely filling her esophagus. She greedily gasped for air, making muffled gagging sounds, saliva accumulating in the corners of her mouth. The feeling was unbearable - the tight penetration, the taste of him mixed with the ghostly taste of his seed from recent moments, absolute dominance.

Falan groaned, low and guttural. The tight, wet heat of her throat combined with the desperate sounds she made lit the coals. He began to move shallowly, mercilessly. Elara's body shook with each thrust, tears now flowing freely, mixing with the saliva covering his member. Her mind was being torn apart. The fear of suffocation fought with the dizzying power of submission, the perverted pleasure of being completely used. She focused on the hard muscles beneath her hands, the smell of leather and sweat, the raw power emanating from him. This was the oblivion she was looking for.

He ​​felt his balls treacherously squeezing. “Swallow,” he ordered hoarsely, his thrusts becoming stronger, deeper, approaching climax. He pulled back slightly and then thrust into her one last time, entering her completely. His cock throbbed furiously against her throat. A thick, hot stream rushed straight into my throat. Elara gasped convulsively when the first jets hit, but Faelan held her tightly and convulsively swallowed the seed.

Thick streams pulsated directly into Elara’s throat. She gagged furiously, her eyes bulging, tears flowing as Faelan pressed her head to his groin, forcing her to absorb every drop. Each hot stream caused a convulsive gulp - a raw, instinctive reflex - as the salty, bittersweet stream filled her esophagus. Her throat clenched desperately, her muscles clenching and unclenching around the invading shaft. The volume alone overwhelmed her; semen gushed from the nostrils and the corners of her stretched lips, dripping onto the dirty floor and the rough wool of the maid's dress. The humiliation was searing, but it was combined with a terrifying excitement - with every greedy sip she violated her royal purity. The taste remained persistent, thick and primal. *This is what freedom tastes like,* her numb mind realized, *before oblivion*.

Finally, Falan's cock softened. He pulled out slowly, slippery and shiny with saliva and traces of semen. Elara bent forward, coughing violently, gasping for air, her fingers clutching her throat. Threads of semen are stuck on the chin and lips. She spat on the dirt floor, shuddering. The physical pain hit her with full force: a throbbing pain deep in her intestines, a rawness in her throat, a burning sensation in her knees on the trampled earth. And yet, beneath the pain, there hummed a deep joy - a fierce pride in having survived the cruelty that she so craved.

Falan pulled away, moving measuredly, hiding the trembling in his hands. The adrenaline rush left him devastated, the reality of their betrayal settling like a stone. He looked at her, at this princess kneeling in the dirt, and at his own release, wiping her face with the rough sleeve of her mask. The challenge in her eyes did not fade; it burned brighter, tempered in the crucible of their meeting.

— Did you like it?” - he asked in a low and hoarse voice that cut through her ragged breathing. “Were you fucked like a barracks whore?” He pointed pointedly at her torn dress and the stains of dust and sweat on her thighs. “Take my seed like a common whore?”

Elara looked up, her green eyes sparkling through the dirt stained with tears. She straightened up, wincing at the protest of her exhausted muscles. Deliberately slowly, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve again - a rough, pragmatic gesture that erased the last traces of his pretensions. Her voice, when it finally came, was hoarse but level, full of dangerous honesty.

— Every moment,” she croaked. She leaned back slightly, resting her hand on the grain sack behind her, and met his gaze without flinching. “The pain... gods, it burned. But she *burned* away the numbness.” His free hand involuntarily reached to his lower abdomen. “And when you filled me...” She shuddered, a deep, inhuman trembling seized her. “It was like fire, igniting every nerve.” Her gaze sharpened, settling on him with frightening intensity. “You gave me what my timid guards would not have dared to do. Your dick...” She paused, sticking her tongue out to wet her lips, tasting the remnants. “It tore me apart. I felt *real*. Mighty." Безрассудная улыбка коснулась её губ. «И проглотить тебя? Чувствовать, как ты пульсируешь у меня в горле? Знать, что я приняла каждую каплю?» Она наклонила голову, и её непокорность переросла во что-то первобытное. «На вкус… божественно. Thick. Горько-сладко. Как проглоченная молния».

Фэлан смотрел на неё. Неверие боролось с дикой гордостью. Он ожидал стыда, раскаяния, возможно, ужаса. Но не этого… яростного чувства собственничества. Она не была сломлена; она была выкована. Опасность не уничтожила её, она *подпитывала* её.

«Ты безумна», – выдохнул он, подходя ближе и нависая над её коленопреклонённой фигурой. «Они медленно убьют тебя за это.»

«А если меня поймают?» – возразила Элара, выпрямляясь, слегка покачиваясь, но не отрывая от него взгляда. Платье служанки неловко висело, обнажая её ушибленное плечо. «Кто поверит *в это*», – она указала на свою растрепанную, испачканную одежду, – «Принцесса Элара? Кто станет искать королевскую наследницу, покрытую пылью и солдатскими тратами?» В её глазах вспыхнул лукавый огонёк. «Они ждут девицу, заключённую в шёлк, а не…» – её улыбка вернулась, теперь уже хищная. «Не шлюха, вкушающая свободу на коленях».

В Фэлане шевельнулось невольное уважение. Её ставка была безумной, но блестяще продуманной. Маскировка была не просто побегом; это было правдоподобное отрицание. Даже если бы её увидели, слухи списали бы её на безрассудную служанку, а не на дочь короля.