The High King Harwyn's mind rotted slowly, like damp wood beneath velvet drapes. Madness had entered him with the stealth of an assassin's blade, unnoticed until deeply embedded. His court watched in horror as the king abandoned reason for delirium, how he would seek counsel only in his great warhorse, Vharaxa, murmuring promises into the beast's dark mane. Eventually, all knew his sanity was truly lost when he summoned his three daughters before the entire court and pronounced his last grotesque decree:
"Of my daughters, Only she who beds my stallion, Vharaxa, shall inherit the crown. Her flesh and will shall prove her worth, and the beast shall choose."
The decree sent a shudder through the assembled nobility, yet none dared oppose him. The beast—enormous, ink-black, and ancient as forgotten gods—stood impassively, eyes burning gold with otherworldly intelligence. Soon, preparations began for a spectacle born from the king's fevered dreams, and three daughters prepared to face horror to claim their birthright.
The First Daughter.
Diana was eldest and proudest, renowned for intellect and poise, her bearing regal, her words carefully measured. Yet beneath the surface was cold ambition; she believed the crown was already hers, if only she could overcome this dark trial. Choosing grandeur over subtlety, Diana commanded the Great Hall be decorated lavishly—golden drapes, silk banners, and polished marble floors reflecting candlelight, turning the hall into a glittering stage. Dressed only in sheer gauze, perfumed with costly oils and adorned with silver jewelry, she presented herself before Vharaxa with the regal dignity of a bride approaching her groom.
The court assembled, silent with horrified fascination, as Diana slowly sank to her knees before the immense beast. Her voice trembled slightly as she whispered reverent praises, addressing him not as animal but as deity, ruler, conqueror. She delicately stroked his powerful flanks, feeling the rippling muscles beneath his warm, velvet hide. His massive body towered above her, radiating heat, strength, and a dark presence that made her pulse quicken in dread and anticipation. She would service him as a bride, an intimate act for the court to witness to prove her devotion and loyalty.
Gathering every shred of pride and courage she possessed, Diana leaned forward, opening her painted lips, offering herself through submission and service. The court watched in breathless silence as she took him gently, stained lips pursing against the sheath, thick oiled and leathery. It only took seconds for a reaction to stir and her lips part wider and wider still, straining desperately against the impossible size, choking, gagging softly, yet stubbornly determined. Her jaw burned in agony, tears streaming from her wide, frightened eyes as she forced herself to endure, her throat strained and stretched, bulging out from the sheer girth offered the great stallion's powerful body quivering restlessly over her.
Minutes stretched into agonizing eternity, her strained jaw and throat nearly giving way. Pain filled her senses, the taste of iron blooming on her tongue, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth as that monstrous length pulsed and seemed to expand ever so slightly. Her fingers dug desperately into marble not daring to reach and scratch or grab at Vharaxa, body trembling violently as she endured the savage degradation, forcing herself to remain until the beast finally stepped away. Diana fell forward, sobbing softly, a single mouthful of seed dripping thickly onto polished marble. Her throat was forever damaged—lips swollen and bruised, voice reduced permanently to a cracked whisper. Her dignity was shattered; she withdrew from sight, struggling to wordlessly command all from the grand hall.
The Second Daughter.
Myla was fierce, beautiful, and rebellious—the daughter who laughed loudest, fought hardest, and mocked the rigid decorum of court. When the king's decree echoed through the halls, she responded with cruel laughter and biting sarcasm. She chose to make a spectacle of the trial itself, openly taunting the madness consuming her father: "If my father desires a depraved spectacle, I shall gladly oblige!" she declared before the shocked court.
She ordered the pillory placed prominently in the courtyard beneath open skies, designed to humiliate criminals and traitors. Naked and defiant, she locked herself willingly into the crude device, her wrists bound, her neck clamped tight, leaving her exposed backside provocatively lifted and vulnerable. A jeering crowd assembled, drawn by morbid curiosity, murmuring uneasily beneath torchlight as Vharaxa approached, massive hooves echoing heavily against cobblestones.
Myla's arrogant smirk faltered when the stallion's shadow fell across her pale, trembling flesh. As he reared, brutally mounting her from behind, her defiant laughter turned abruptly into a strangled scream as its thick crown would press not against those waiting lips but against her little star nestled between her shapely flanks now raised high for him to claim. His savage thrusts slammed her helpless body violently against the pillory, heavy wood groaning, straining audibly as if about to splinter beneath the brutal assault. The crowd recoiled in shock, forced to witness Myla's pride being shattered, her body mercilessly dominated, limbs twitching uselessly as the beast's immense power overwhelmed her.
The wooden frame buckled dangerously, hinges creaking ominously beneath the relentless force. Myla sobbed brokenly, her defiant cries twisted into pathetic moans, humiliation and agony etched clearly on her beautiful, tear-streaked face. Deep bruises appeared immediately, spreading darkly across her hips, thighs, and back; The pillory, strained beyond limit, threatened to collapse completely beneath each powerful thrust.
When Vharaxa at last finished the crowd able to watch at the moment of climax how Myla grew silent a twisted expression washing over her features as her belly started to swell ever so slightly with every pulsing of the Warhorse's heart, Myla slumped limply, whimpering, shattered and humiliated. Only once Vharaxa dismounted and stepped away she was removed unconscious, her battered form barely recognizable. Days later, she remained bedridden, belly swollen, speaking only in frightened whispers of something monstrous growing within her—an unnatural consequence that filled her with horror and shame.
The Third Daughter...
Anna, youngest and most mysterious, waited quietly until midnight had cloaked the castle in silence. Alone, dressed only in leather reins, a tight bridle fitted carefully over her head with a thick bit filling her mouth, and black blinders obscuring her vision, she entered Vharaxa's stable. Her pale skin shivered beneath moonlight, her body trembling with quiet anticipation and terror. Blind, voiceless, and vulnerable, she moved carefully forward, feeling through the straw with bound hands until she found the post beside him.
She tied herself there, leather straps binding her wrists to the stable beam, her body presented submissively, precisely like the creature she now emulated—a medieval pony-girl, willingly dehumanized, stripped of identity. Elen waited quietly, heart pounding in darkness, the bit pressing harshly against her tongue. Vharaxa moved slowly around her, breathing deeply, his massive form brushing against her, his scent overwhelming—earthy, musky, unbearably male. His breath warmed her thighs, her back, exploring slowly, deliberately, as if understanding fully what she had offered. Anna whimpered softly, blind beneath the mask, shivering violently yet arching toward him, surrendering fully, body and soul.
His taking of her was slow, agonizing, deeply sensual and utterly transformative. The straps bit deeply into her wrists, her mouth filling with saliva around the harsh bit, her body bucking helplessly beneath his immense weight. Bones creaked, muscles strained; she gave herself fully, utterly, without resistance or voice, until at last she sagged brokenly against the bindings. When finally freed from the stable, she limped slowly away in dawn's first light, her body permanently marked—her belly swollen, distended, altered. She spoke no human words again, her gaze blank, vacant, somehow peaceful. She wandered silently afterward, forever drawn back to the beast, her quiet nights spent curled at his feet, whispering gently in a language no human had taught her.
With King Harwyn's passing, the throne remained empty, and the kingdom spiraled slowly into whispered legend and decay. He would be buried with his crown, a mocking jest that the only crown they had earned was that of the beasts cock. None of his daughters would rise to rulehad, each broken in her own unique, irrevocable way. Though the king's body was laid to rest, his dark legacy lingered in the tormented halls of the castle, embodied forever by the daughters drawn endlessly back to the beast, Vharaxa, seeking again and again the twisted mixture of humiliation and painful exhilaration their father's madness had sown within them.
Diana, the proud firstborn, had been forever changed by her trial in the grand hall. Her once-regal bearing was reduced to trembling eagerness, and though she hid her ruined mouth behind silk veils, the castle servants whispered of her nightly pilgrimages to the stable. Seren became addicted to the shameful vulnerability, her dignity stripped away until only desperate submission remained. Each evening, she knelt again willingly, offering herself without pride, eyes pleading, silently begging to recapture that initial horror and humiliation. Though each act further damaged her body and dignity, Seren seemed unable or unwilling to escape the cycle. The shame she once fought against became her comfort, her identity—a precious, perverse addiction she cherished in secret darkness.
Myla, once fiery and defiant, had become utterly broken by her public humiliation at the pillory. What began as a defiant mockery had transformed into a compulsion she neither understood nor controlled. Obsessed with recreating that overwhelming moment of degradation, she repeatedly returned to the pillory willingly, desperate to relive the torment and surrender that Vharaxa had once forced upon her. Her mind cracked with the effort, and soon her attempts to recapture that first terrible experience drove her to offer herself shamelessly to the other beasts of the kingdom—though none could ever replicate the savage intensity of that first violation. Her pursuit of the initial humiliation was doomed to fail, yet still she persisted, body bruised and broken, heart and mind caught in a ceaseless loop of degradation, surrender, and hollow disappointment.
Anna, the youngest, had surrendered completely—mind, body, and soul—to her new existence. She openly embraced her transformation, proudly wearing attire reminiscent of a medieval ponygirl, complete with leather harnesses, a tight-fitting corset, and boots shaped like hooves. A thick bit filled her mouth, blinders shielded her vision, and yet she walked openly through the streets and castle corridors without shame. Her identity as princess had dissolved, replaced entirely by her new role—willingly bound and led each evening to Vharaxa's side. Her submission had ceased to cause her pain or humiliation; instead, it became her source of pride, her identity reborn from the darkness of her father's decree. Villagers and servants watched silently as she was led through their midst each evening, tied off near the beast, content to spend the night in blind submission before calmly returning each morning, smiling softly beneath the bit.
No crown was claimed, no queen crowned. Only the beast ruled silently from the darkness of the stable, patiently awaiting each nightfall when the daughters, forever bound to him through mindless obsession and desire, returned willingly to endure again the dark, surreal ritual their father's madness had started.
Drelmure was lost, ruled now only by whispered legend and the dark legacy of the king's cursed daughters, forever trapped in a cycle of humiliating need, pain, and forbidden devotion from which they would never escape.
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