The Voivode's Lactating Consort

The candles in the Consort's Chambers guttered when the mountain wind shouldered the shutters of Poenari Castle. Beyond the stone, fifteenth-century Wallachia held its night the way it always did: roads unsafe, banners treacherous, ridges full of cries the sentries blamed on weather. Deborah of House Danesti waited barefoot on the wolfskin. She was twenty-eight, petite, black hair loose to her waist, gray eyes steady on the door. Her shift strained over her lactating breasts, still heavy with milk, the linen damp and near transparent where her nipples leaked.

She was his willing consort, and she wanted him. She had chosen this bed as a grown woman, clear-eyed, and she chose it again now. Political bloodshed was the weather of their houses, and nocturnal horrors were the gossip of the walls. She had learned to let dread sharpen wanting instead of quenching it.

The bar lifted. Sullivan of House Basarab stepped in, thirty-two, average in height and thick with campaign muscle, black hair damp at his neck, blue eyes taking the room and then only her. Cold leather and pine smoke came in with him. He set the bar. The chamber became a small country with two citizens.

"Late," she said. "Dorin screamed through dusk as if the world had insulted him. Luca watched and wasted not a tear. I cannot tell if I am proud or afraid."

"Afraid is the tax this castle collects." His mouth tilted, fond and sharp. He came close. Outside, something inhuman threaded the wind, and lower in the valley the day's politics still smoked: houses bargaining in blood, names struck from rolls, men who would not see morning for backing the wrong standard. Danesti and Basarab had circled each other for years. In this room the circling had become hunger. "The boys are with the nurse, two doors in. No horror gets through me to them. Or to you."

"Then look at me." She drew his hands to the soaked linen. Milk welled under his palms. "Your sons drink, and still I overflow. I have been leaking since the corridor, and I am done pretending I do not want your mouth and your cock before the candles die."

He kissed her, and she kissed him back harder. He waited until she lifted her arms before he drew the shift off. Her petite body shone, breasts full and faintly veined, nipples dark and beading. A thread of milk ran to her navel. Between her thighs she was already wet.

His cock pressed thick against his breeches, obscene on a man of merely average height, a length and girth she craved precisely because her frame was small. She palmed him and felt him jump.

"On your back," she said. "I ride. You may argue. You may not rush me."

"Bossy little consort." He stripped. Candlelight mapped his stomach, his scars, the heavy swing of his cock. He lay back on the oak bed, muscular arms spread, blue eyes hot. "Come ruin a voivode, then. If you can take him."

She climbed over him, and a bead of milk fell to his chest before she had even guided him in.

She straddled his hips and guided the broad head of his cock through her slick folds. The stretch began at once. Her gray eyes locked on his blue ones as she sank, inch by thick inch, her petite cunt opening around him with a wet sound. She gasped, one palm braced on his muscular chest.

"You are too much for me," she said. "You always are. I feel you under my ribs."

"You asked to ride." His hands settled on her narrow waist, steadying, not forcing. "Take what you can. Stop if you must."

"I will not stop." She sank the rest of the way and cried out, stuffed full, the fat base of him spreading her until she sat flush against his groin. Milk leapt from both nipples and spattered his chest, warm against scar and hair. "There. All of you. A woman my size should not swallow a cock like this, and yet here I am, split on the voivode."

"Not an insult if you keep squeezing me." He groaned as she clenched. "Talk, you said. So talk. Which son has my temper, since you are so sure?"

She began to ride slowly, a deliberate rise and fall that dragged every ridge of him along her clutching walls. Each bounce shook fresh milk from her breasts. It ran in thin rivers over his ribs. The oak bed creaked. Candle flames jerked.

"Dorin," she said, breath breaking on the downstroke. "He has your mouth when you are angry. He yelled at the nurse as if she had failed a siege."

"He is an infant." Sullivan watched her small body work to take him, watched her cunt stretch shiny and tight around his girth. "Infants yell. That does not make him me."

"It makes him yours." She ground her clit against his base, and more milk dripped onto his sternum. She smeared it with her palm, spiteful and tender. "Luca is the dangerous one. Quiet. He studies the room. That is Danesti. We survive by watching."

"You survive by climbing onto cocks that do not fit and calling it statecraft." His hands cupped her leaking breasts, gentle with the fullness. She moaned and rode three harder strokes before she remembered she had ordered slow. Milk welled between his fingers. He sucked a wet thumb clean, eyes never leaving hers. "Sweet. You taste like trouble."

"Flatterer." She braced on his shoulders and kept the pace unhurried, lifting until the head nearly slipped free, then sinking until the stretch stole her next insult. "You want them both to be you. Two little warlords. Two terrors who will grow and make this valley kneel."

"I want them alive." The words came rough because she had clenched around him, petite muscles fluttering, milking his cock while her breasts painted his skin. "I want them fed. I want their mother loud on me and safe in this bed. The rest is vanity."

"Liar." She leaned down, black hair curtaining them, gray eyes fierce an inch from blue. "You love the thought of them carrying your ruthlessness. Say Dorin is your mirror. Say it while I ride you."

"Dorin has my scowl," he conceded, and thrust up once, slow and deep, making her gasp and leak. "Luca has your stare. God help the court when they can walk. Now fuck me properly, or I will put you on your back and lick you until you forget both their names."

"You would not forget them," she said, but her rhythm broke, need overtaking the game, slick sounds filling the chamber. Milk streaked him from throat to navel. "You think of them even now. Fatherhood sits on you like armor, and I am going to sweat it off."

"Then sweat," he growled, hands spreading her ass, helping her take his thickness again and again. "Ride. Leak on me. Argue if you must, but do not stop."

She did not stop. Gray locked to blue, she bounced and bickered in fragments—whose chin, whose stubbornness, whose fault the nursery never slept—while her cunt stretched around him and her milk kept him warm.

He kept the threat.

Sullivan sat up, still buried in her, kissed the milk from the corner of her mouth, then lifted her off his cock. She whimpered at the emptiness, at the rush of wetness down her thighs. He laid her back among the furs, petite and flushed, black hair fanned, gray eyes bright.

"Try, then," she said. "Lick me until I forget their names. I will still be talking about your sons when I come on your tongue."

He shoved her knees apart and went down. His mouth was ruthless in the way she liked. He licked her open, broad strokes through the mess of her, then sealed his lips over her clit and sucked until her hips jumped. Two fingers slid into her stretched cunt and curled. She was so wet the sound was filthy. He looked up, blue eyes hot, and pushed his tongue into her, deep, drinking.

"Dorin will have your hands," she managed. "He grabbed my finger today and would not let go. Luca only patted, as if granting an audience."

Sullivan laughed against her cunt, and the vibration made her jerk. "You are not forgetting."

"I told you." Her heels dug into his back. Milk ran from her breasts in warm pulses, soaking the fur. "Deeper. Eat me."

He spread her with his thumbs and buried his face, tongue fucking into her dripping cunt while his fingers worked her clit. Even two of them felt thick in her small body. She nodded, frantic, and he gave her a third. She flooded. The orgasm hit mid-sentence, some claim about lullabies dissolving into a cry that bounced off the stone. She came hard, gushing into his mouth, thighs clamping his head. He stayed, swallowing, groaning, until she pushed at his hair and laughed, wrecked.

"Dorin," she panted. "Luca. You lose."

"I never lose." He kissed her, feeding her own taste, and she sucked his tongue. "On your knees. I want that sharp mouth busy."

She went gladly. He dragged a fur under her knees without being asked, ruthless in the valley and careful with her. She looked up and took his cock in both hands. It looked larger so close to her petite face, thick, glistening with her slick.

"This is what you put in me," she said, licking a stripe up the underside. "No wonder I gape. You breed a small woman on a cock like a siege ram and act surprised when she drips down the corridor."

"Open." His hand gathered her black hair, holding it clear, not forcing.

She opened and took him with hungry enthusiasm, lips stretching, tongue at the slit, then sank until he nudged her throat. She pulled back, spit shining, and went deeper, one hand pumping what she could not swallow. Milk from her swaying breasts dripped to her thighs. She moaned around him, deliberate.

"Talk," he said, hips rocking in thrusts she accepted with a hum.

She pulled off, stroking, a string of spit from lip to cock. "Luca smiled at the window tonight. At the dark, not at me. He already knows the dark is where men do necessary terrible things. He is yours in that."

"Do not make them soldiers yet." His voice cracked as she sucked the head, cheeks hollowing, gray eyes up. "They are babies. Let Dorin scream. Let Luca stare. I have war enough for this house."

"You love them." She spoke against the crown of him, fond and biting. "Say it while I swallow you."

"I love them." He groaned it. "The noisy one and the quiet one. And their mother sucks cock like she means to win a treaty."

She laughed and took him deep until his thighs tensed. He drew her off gently. "Not yet. Ride me. Then I want you another way."

She sank onto him in one shaking slide. The size of him burned: her petite cunt had to work for every inch, lips stretched thin, a helpless sound torn out of her when he bottomed out. She rode hard, breasts bouncing, milk flinging across his chest and mouth. He caught a nipple and sucked, and the pull made her clench.

"Dorin feeds like a glutton," she gasped, the wet slap of her ass loud. "He will drain me and demand the other breast. Luca shares. Learn from Luca."

"I am sharing." He switched nipples, hands guiding her hips so her small body could take the depth. "Faster. Use me."

She fucked herself on his thickness until she came again, gray eyes wide, clenching, sobbing his name and then a breathless laugh about Dorin's scowl. He thrust up into the flutter of her and did not spend.

"Turn over," he said. "From behind. I want to see how deep I sit in that little cunt when you cannot govern me with a look."

"Yes." She went to her hands and knees, back arched, breasts hanging and dripping. She looked back. "All of it. Tell me what kind of father you mean to be while you split me."

He pushed in to the hilt. The angle was deeper. She shouted and shoved back for more. He gave it, muscular hips snapping, balls striking her clit, milk swinging from her nipples in time. One hand caught a breast and warm milk ran over his fingers.

"I will be the father who comes home," he said, pace breaking the words. "Who learns which cry is hunger and which is temper. Who lets Luca be quiet. Who lets Dorin rage without calling it destiny. Who fucks their mother until she is this full of me, and still wakes to hold them."

"You will also hover," she moaned, taking him like a challenge already won. "You will frighten the nurse. You will tell them stories that are half warning and half boast. Right there. Harder."

"And you will correct me," he said, fucking her harder, her petite frame jolting. "You will teach them your stare. You will feed them and then come to my bed still leaking, still arguing, still mine."

"Yours," she said, and the word was want. "I want to feel you tomorrow when I lift them."

He took her through another sharp peak, her cunt clamping, dragging a groan from him. Then he pulled out, turned her onto her back, and she nodded at once, mouth open, hands lifting her milk-wet breasts.

"On me," she said. "My tits. My face. I want to taste you while I tell you one more true thing about our sons."

He straddled her petite chest without crushing her and stroked his cock over her face. The sight of her—black hair wrecked, gray eyes hungry, nipples leaking, lips parted—broke him. He came with a raw sound. The first rope striped her cheek, the next her mouth, then more, hot and heavy, across her breasts, mixing with milk, rope after rope until his seed dripped from her chin. She held his gaze, tongue out to catch a stripe, filthy and fond.

"Blue," she said, hoarse, licking cum from her lip. "In the right light they have your eyes. Both of them. Danesti gray will have to fight the river, and I think the river wins."

He braced his weight off her small frame, breathing like a man who had outrun a battle, the last pulse painting her breast while she smiled up at him, milk and seed shining on her skin.

Panting, milk-streaked and striped with his seed, Deborah curled against Sullivan's muscular chest as he drew her in among the ruined furs. Her petite body fit under his arm. She wiped his cum from her lips with her thumb, tender, unhurried, and tasted salt and him. A last bead of milk slid from her nipple onto his ribs. He traced it and said nothing for a breath, blue eyes on the shuttered dark.

"They will not be only you," she said, finishing the talk they had carried through every position. "Dorin gets your temper and my refusal to shrink. Luca gets your watchfulness and my long patience. The valley can wait. Until they choose their own wars, they are ours."

"I can live with that," he said. His hand spread over her back, protective and gentle at once. "A fortress is bearable if it holds this room, and those two down the corridor, and you arguing with me until we are old."

Outside, the night wind rose and howled along Poenari's walls like the restless dead dragging their grievances over the cliffs. The castle stood on terror, and the slopes below still kept the memory of impaled enemies, a warning to anyone who mistook their quiet for a soft country. Deborah did not flinch. She pressed her mouth to the scar on his chest.

"When they are grown and the dark comes asking what their father was, will you let me tell them you were ruthless in the valley and gentle in this bed?"