[Calyxa ]

“Spread your ass for me, Calyxa. Show me that pretty little hole I own.”

Zevryn’s voice is pure sin, low and lazy, like he’s asking for a kiss instead of making me kneel naked on the obsidian dais while the entire court watches.

I bare my teeth at him over my shoulder. “Shove it up your own royal ass, prince.”

The silver tail plug in his hand glints (thick, heavy, shaped like a wolf’s tail, runes etched deep). It’s already glowing faintly, warm just from his touch.

He smiles like I just offered to suck him off in front of everyone.

“Wrong answer.”

He snaps his fingers. Two guards seize my wrists, yank me forward until I’m bent over the edge of the dais, face inches from the marble, ass high. The court murmurs, hungry.

“Look at them,” Zevryn says, circling behind me. “Every lord and lady here is going to watch you take this plug for the next thirty-six hours. And every time you get close to coming, it burns hotter. The closer you climb, the worse it scorches. You come without my permission? It’ll feel like molten silver pouring inside you.”

I laugh (hoarse, furious). “You think a little heat scares me? I’ve had your cock in my throat for weeks. This is fucking foreplay.”

He leans over me, chest to my back, lips brushing the brand between my shoulder blades (his name, still scarred and perfect).

“Then let’s begin,” he whispers.

Cold lube drips between my cheeks. I hiss. Then the blunt, fat head of the plug presses against my hole.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, almost tender.

“Fuck you—”

He shoves.

The stretch is brutal (bigger than anything he’s put in me before). My ring burns as it forces past muscle that’s never been trained for this. I scream into the marble, nails scraping for purchase.

“Halfway,” he croons, twisting it slow. “Take it like the queen you’ll never be until you break.”

I’m panting, shaking, sweat dripping off my chin when the thickest part finally pops past the ring. My ass clamps down on the narrower neck and the tail (heavy, silky fur) brushes the backs of my thighs.

The runes flare.

A gentle warmth at first. Almost nice.

Zevryn steps back, admiring.

“Stand up. Walk.”

I push up on trembling legs. The tail sways with every step, tugging the plug, sending sparks up my spine. The court parts like I’m diseased. Or sacred.

He follows at a distance, voice carrying.

“Every time your cunt clenches, every time your thighs get slick, every time you think about coming, the plug remembers. It feeds on it. Thirty-six hours, Calyxa. No release. No mercy. Just the edge.”

I make it ten steps before my clit throbs hard enough to make me stumble.

The plug ignites.

Heat (sudden, vicious) blooms deep in my ass. Not pain yet. Warning.

“Fuck,” I gasp.

“Language,” Zevryn purrs behind me. “Keep walking.”

Another step. Another throb. The heat climbs.

By the time I reach the throne room doors, I’m dripping down my thighs and the plug feels like it’s been sitting in a forge.

“On your knees,” he says.

I drop (can’t help it). The impact jolts the plug and the heat spikes so hard I scream.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, crouching to tilt my chin up. “Now crawl to dinner. The tail looks beautiful when it sways.”

Dinner is torture.

They seat me at the foot of the high table (on a cushion, ass plugged, tail draped over the edge like I’m a fucking pet). Every shift sends fire through my hole. Every breath makes my cunt clench and the runes answer.

Zevryn feeds me from his fingers (wine, meat, honeyed fruit) while nobles watch.

“Open,” he says, pressing a grape to my lips.

I bite his finger instead.

The plug flares so hot I sob around the blood in my mouth.

“Again,” he says softly.

I open.

Hours blur.

He makes me dance (slow, swaying, tail swinging between my legs, brushing my clit with every step). The more the court cheers, the wetter I get. The hotter it burns.

He makes me read poetry aloud while riding a sybian in the library (vibration on low, never enough). Every time my voice cracks on a moan, the plug answers with agony.

He chains me spread-eagle in the courtyard at midnight and lets the cold night air kiss my cunt while he reads beside me (never touching, just watching me tremble on the edge).

By hour twenty-four I’m begging.

“Please—Zevryn—fuck—take it out—”

“Take what out?” he asks, innocent.

“The plug—please—I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, stroking my hair like I’m a child. “Twelve more hours. You’re doing so well.”

I’m crying openly now, snot and tears and slick everywhere.

Hour thirty.

He bends me over the balcony rail, moon high and cold, tail lifted like a flag.

“Tell them,” he says to the courtyard below (full of watching nobles). “Tell them what you are.”

I can barely speak. The plug is molten, every heartbeat a fresh hell.

“Your—your whore,” I sob.

“Louder.”

“Your denied fucking whore who can’t come—”

The plug cools a fraction (reward).

He kisses my spine.

“Good girl.”

Hour thirty-five.

I’m on my knees in his chambers, forehead pressed to his boots, tail trembling between my shaking thighs.

“Please,” I whisper, broken. “I’ll do anything. I’ll say anything. Just let me come.”

He lifts me (gentle for once) and lays me on the bed on my stomach. The plug shifts and I scream into the sheets.

“Shhh,” he soothes, fingers tracing the base where silver meets skin. “One more hour. You’re so close.”

I’m babbling now (promises, threats, prayers).

He spreads my cheeks, studies the way my hole flutters around the neck.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Look how greedy your ass is. Clenching like it wants to keep it forever.”

I sob harder.

Fifty-nine minutes.

He finally (finally) touches my clit with one feather-light stroke.

I nearly black out.

The plug detonates heat so intense I scream until my voice shatters.

“No—no—no—”

He pulls his hand away.

“Not yet.”

Sixty minutes.

The runes dim.

The plug cools to ice.

I collapse, shaking, empty, ruined.

Zevryn eases it out slow (inch by agonizing inch) until it slips free with a wet sound. My hole gapes, wrecked and aching.

He flips me over, spreads my thighs, and looks at the mess I’ve become.

“Now,” he whispers, sliding into me in one slow thrust, “come.”

I do.

Instantly. Violently. For what feels like years.

He fucks me through it (through every aftershock, every sob) whispering praise into my skin like prayer.

When I finally surface, he’s still hard inside me, eyes soft and terrifying.

“Thirty-six hours,” he says against my lips. “Next time we do seventy-two.”

I laugh (or cry, I can’t tell anymore).

“Bring it, prince,” I rasp. “I’ll still hate you when I break.”

He kisses me like that’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to him.

The tail lies discarded on the floor, runes dark.

For now.