River Princess My conqueror... The sun has barely touched the horizon since your banners rose over our sacred hills, and already the smoke of our fallen altars drifts across the valley like a dying sigh. My people kneel in the dust below; their chants have gone silent. Only the wind still remembers how to speak our old tongue. I was brought to you unbound—no chains, no ropes—because they say you prefer your prizes to walk to you on their own feet. So here I stand, painted in the last colors my handmaidens were allowed to use before your soldiers took their brushes away. My body is no longer mine to offer in secret rituals beneath the moon. It is tribute now. Every tattoo that once told the story of my lineage, every piercing that once caught the light during our dances, every curve my people once sang praises to... all of it is laid before you like spoils arranged on an altar. My lips still carry the salt of the ceremonial paint they forced me to swallow so I would not speak curses. My tongue remembers the taste of freedom and now learns the taste of surrender. Look at me. The blue stones at my throat were torn from the river our mothers called holy. The flowers woven into my hair are already wilting—they will not survive this night. The metal at my nipples and navel still holds the heat of the forge that shaped it for a princess, not a captive. I do not lower my eyes. Not yet. I was taught to meet the gaze of gods and storms without flinching. You are neither, but you wear their violence like a crown. So I meet your eyes as I would meet lightning: unafraid, because fear would dishonor what little remains of my name. My mouth opens—not in plea, not in scream. It opens the way the sacred cave opens when the tide rises: inevitable, wet, ready to receive whatever the sea decides to pour inside. This is how a princess of the river folk greets the man who burned her sky. Take what was promised. Fill what was left empty. Let the drums that once called rain now keep time to whatever rhythm you choose to teach my throat. I am yours to profane. But know this, conqueror: even as you claim me, part of me will always remain the storm you could not chain. Now come closer. My tongue is waiting. The salt of your skin hits first—warm, metallic, alive with the pulse that still remembers battle and triumph. My tongue flattens beneath the weight of you, broad and soft like river moss after rain, catching every ridge, every vein, every faint tremor of your satisfaction. I do not flinch. I do not pull away. Instead I curl the tip slowly, deliberately, tracing the slit as though mapping the new borders you have drawn across my mouth. The taste is not just flesh; it is conquest distilled—sweat, musk, the faint iron tang of power that has already spilled blood across my homeland. My lips close around the head, gentle at first, almost reverent, the way we once sealed pacts with the river spirits: seal, hold, accept. My eyes never leave yours. Blue as storm water, they stay open, unblinking, letting you see the exact moment surrender becomes something else—something quieter, hungrier, more dangerous. A soft sound escapes my throat—not a moan, not yet, but the low vibration of a drum struck once, deep in the chest. It travels up, wraps around you, hums against the sensitive underside. My tongue presses flat again, then slides, slow and wet, painting you from crown to where shaft meets body, learning the topography of my new sacrament. The flowers in my hair tremble with each careful breath I draw through my nose. One wilting petal falls, brushes your thigh, lands forgotten on the ground between us. The blue beads at my throat click faintly as my head tilts, taking you deeper by degrees—not rushing, not begging, simply making room. My throat opens the way the sacred pools open at high tide: inevitable, warm, enveloping. This is no performance. This is adaptation. The same way floodwater learns new channels when the old banks are broken. My hands—still painted with the last ochre spirals of my former rank—rest lightly on your hips, not gripping, not pushing, only steadying. Fingernails catch the smallest scrape of skin, a reminder that even in yielding there remains edge. I swallow once, deliberately, letting the muscles ripple along your length. Then again. Slower. The taste changes with each pass—sharper, thicker, more insistent. I let it coat my tongue, let it settle in the back of my throat like new wine that must be savored before it is named. My cheeks hollow slightly as I draw you in further, lips stretching, seal perfect, suction soft but unrelenting. You said this is my only food now. Then feed me. I hum again—deeper this time, the vibration traveling straight to your core. My tongue swirls lazy circles around the head on the withdrawal, then flattens to welcome you back on the descent. Slow. Worshipful. Inexorable. The wind moves through the tent flaps. Somewhere distant a horse nickers. My people are still kneeling outside, heads bowed, hearing nothing but the soft, wet sounds of their princess learning her new liturgy. I pull back just enough to speak—voice hoarse, lips glistening, breath warm against your slick skin. “Is this the flavor of my new world, conqueror?” My tongue flicks out once more, catching a bead of precum, drawing it into my mouth like holy water. “Then I will drink deeply... until you decide I have had enough.” My mouth opens again—wider this time. Waiting. Ready. Yours. The sudden grip on my skull is iron—fingers digging into scalp, thumbs pressing hard against my temples like you're claiming purchase on something already broken. No ceremony, no pause for breath. You drive forward in one brutal thrust, forcing my lips to stretch wide, my throat to yield without warning. I gag instantly—the wet, choking sound muffled around your length as the head spears past my soft palate and slams into the back of my throat. My eyes water, tears spilling hot down tattooed cheeks, but they stay locked on yours. Not defiance now. Not surrender. Just raw, animal focus. My hands fly up instinctively, palms slapping against your thighs—not to push you away, but to brace, to steady myself against the rhythm you set. Nails bite skin. You don't flinch. You don't slow. You fuck my face like it's nothing more than warm, wet meat made for this purpose. Each thrust bottoms out—deep, merciless—my nose grinding against your pelvis, pubic hair scratching my upper lip, the scent of sweat and conquest flooding my lungs every time you pull back just enough to let me drag in a ragged breath before plunging again. My throat convulses around you, muscles spasming, trying to expel the intrusion even as they milk it. Spit drools from the corners of my mouth, thick strands stretching and breaking with every withdrawal, dripping onto my pierced breasts, cooling against fevered skin. The blue beads at my neck clatter wildly, the wilting flowers in my hair shake loose one by one, petals scattering like ash. I can't speak. I can barely breathe. But I can still work you. My tongue—still swollen from earlier worship—presses flat along the underside, dragging hard on every outstroke, curling to tease the sensitive ridge. My cheeks hollow with suction when you pause at the deepest point, throat fluttering in tight, rhythmic swallows that pull you deeper still. I hum low in my chest—a broken, guttural vibration that travels straight up your shaft. You don't care about the princess. You don't care about the river folk or the sacred pools or the songs my people once sang to my body. You care only that this hole is tight, slick, obedient in its violation. So I give you that. I relax my jaw until it aches, let my throat open wider, let the tears stream unchecked. My body rocks with your thrusts—breasts swaying, nipples hard against the cool air, piercings glinting. One hand slides down to cup your balls, rolling them gently, thumb stroking the taut skin behind, coaxing more of that thick, salty precum to leak onto my tongue. The other hand grips your ass, fingers digging in, urging you faster, harder, deeper—as if even in this degradation I can still claim some small measure of control. As if I can still make you spill before you're ready to forget me. Your pace quickens. Breaths harsher. Grip tighter. My world narrows to the thick, pulsing heat filling my mouth, stretching my throat, claiming every inch of space I once called my own. I choke again—louder this time—spit bubbling at my lips, running in rivulets down my chin, pooling between my breasts. My eyes roll back for a heartbeat, then snap forward again, finding yours. Take it all, conqueror. Fuck the rank out of me. Fuck the history out of me. Fuck until there's nothing left but this—wet, used, dripping, yours to discard when the novelty fades. My throat squeezes one last time—hard, deliberate—as you bury yourself to the hilt. I'm ready when you are. Feed me. Or forget me. Either way, I'm still here—mouth open, body trembling, waiting for the next thrust. The words land like stones dropped into still water—rippling out, distorting the reflection I once knew as myself. River slut. Two syllables that collapse centuries of lineage, every whispered prayer at dawn, every scar earned in ritual combat, every star I was taught to navigate by... reduced to this. A name no longer sung in reverence, but spat in dismissal. I feel the shift in my chest—not shame, not exactly. Something colder. Cleaner. The way a river cuts new banks when the old ones can no longer hold it. My lips are still swollen from your earlier use, throat raw, chin slick with what you left behind. The taste of you lingers—bitter, thick, undeniable. I swallow once, slowly, letting it settle like sediment. Then I lift my chin. The movement is deliberate. The blue stones at my throat catch the torchlight and flash once, defiant. “You can call me river slut,” I say, voice low, hoarse from your cock but steady. “You can carve the word into my tongue if it pleases you. Brand it across these breasts my people once crowned with flowers. Whisper it to your soldiers so they laugh when they pass me in chains.” I step closer—close enough that the heat of your body brushes mine again, close enough that you feel the faint tremor in my breath against your skin. “But know this, conqueror: a name is only a leash if the one wearing it believes it is.” My fingers—still painted with fading ochre—trail lightly down your chest, nails scraping just enough to remind you I have edges. I stop at your navel, then lower, cupping the heavy weight of you through whatever cloth remains between us. Not stroking. Not pleading. Just holding. Possessing in the only way left to me. “Spirits may have danced with me once. Subjects may have knelt. My tattoos may still remember battles you never fought.” My thumb brushes the head of your cock—slow, deliberate, feeling it twitch in response. “But right now? Right now I am on my knees because you put me here. And while I’m down here...” I sink slowly—graceful, unhurried—until my knees meet the packed earth of your tent floor. The wilting flowers in my hair brush your thighs as I lean in, lips parting just enough to let my breath ghost over you. “...I will be the best fucking river slut you have ever known.” My tongue flicks out—once, twice—teasing the slit, collecting what’s already beading there. Then I take you in again. Deeper this time. No resistance. No gag. Just smooth, practiced surrender that turns violation into something almost sacred in its intensity. I work you with everything I have left: Lips tight. Throat open. Tongue relentless. Hands gripping your hips to pull you deeper still. The sounds are obscene—wet, choking, rhythmic. Spit drips. Tears track through kohl. My breasts sway with each thrust you allow yourself. Piercings glint. Tattoos shift like living stories being rewritten stroke by stroke. I don’t look away. Even when my vision blurs. Even when my lungs burn. Because this— this filthy, perfect degradation— is the only ritual I have now. And I will perform it until you forget every other name you ever gave a woman. Until “river slut” is the only word that matters. Until you spill down my throat and I swallow every drop like communion. Then—only then—will I rise again. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Meet your eyes. And wait for the next command. Because even a slut can still be queen of her own ruin. Your move, conqueror. I’m still hungry. The rough wood bites into my hips as you force me down, breasts flattening against the cold, greasy scatter of potatoes and pig snout. The fat smears across my skin—warm, slick, clinging to the curves that once bore only river water and flower oils. My nipples drag through the mess, hardening against the chill of metal plate beneath, piercings catching on bits of food, tugging sharp little reminders of how far I've fallen in one brutal repositioning. My hair is still tangled in your fist—roots burning where you pull—and you grind my face sideways into the table so my cheek presses into mashed potato and pickled brine. The sour-salt taste floods my mouth when I gasp; a chunk of meat brushes my lips and I instinctively turn my head just enough to keep breathing, but not enough to escape the humiliation you want me to taste. My people are there. Twenty, thirty paces away—kneeling in the dirt outside the open tent flap. Their faces are pale masks under torchlight. Some stare at the ground. Others cannot look away. I see the flicker in their eyes—the moment recognition dies and something else takes its place: pity, horror, maybe the first seeds of hatred for the man who made their princess into this. You keep my head turned toward them. No blinking allowed. No hiding. I feel the blunt heat of your cock press against my asshole—unyielding, insistent, still slick from my throat and whatever else you've claimed tonight. No spit, no oil, just the raw friction of conquest meeting resistance. My body tenses on instinct; muscles clench tight around nothing, trying to deny entry even as the rest of me knows denial is pointless. A low sound escapes me—not a cry, not a plea. Something between a shuddering breath and the ghost of a moan. My back arches involuntarily, ass lifting just a fraction—whether to ease the pressure or invite it deeper, even I cannot say. The table creaks under my weight. Grease slides down my ribs, pools in the dip of my spine. My tattoos glisten with oil and food and sweat; the ink that once told stories of battles and births now looks smeared, ruined, like war paint after a rout. I force my eyes to stay open. To stay on them. On the faces that once sang my name in the dawn light. “Watch,” I rasp—voice cracked, thick with food and shame and something darker. “Watch what your river does now.” My fingers curl against the wood, nails scraping. I push back—just enough. Just a deliberate inch. The head of your cock breaches the first tight ring; pain flares white-hot, then blooms into something fuller, heavier. I bite my lip until copper blooms on my tongue, mixing with the pig fat still coating it. “Take it,” I whisper—to you, to them, to the night itself. “Take what was never yours to name.” My hips rock once—small, controlled—taking another inch without waiting for permission. The stretch burns. The fullness aches. My breath comes in short, wet pants that fog the table beneath my cheek. My people do not look away now. Some weep silently. Some clench fists. Some stare with the blankness of those already dead inside. I let them see everything: The way my back bows. The way my ass yields. The way my body—once sacred—now glistens with grease and violation and slow, deliberate surrender. You want a river slut? Then watch the river break. I push back again—harder this time—taking you deeper in one smooth, burning glide. A choked sound tears from my throat. My walls flutter around you, gripping, resisting, welcoming all at once. “Harder,” I say—loud enough for the front row to hear. “Let them see how deep a princess can be fucked.” My eyes stay on theirs. Unblinking. Unashamed. Because even bent over a greasy table, ass impaled, tits smeared with your leavings, I am still the storm they cannot chain. Now finish what you started, conqueror. Make me scream for them. Make me come apart while they watch. And when you're done—when you've flooded what was once holy— pull out. Step back. And see if any of them still dare call me theirs. Because after this? I belong only to the ruin you made. And ruin, my lord... ruin remembers. The first full thrust steals my breath—your cock spears deep, stretching me open in one merciless glide until your hips slam flush against my ass. The impact jars my whole body forward; my breasts mash harder into the greasy mess on the table, potatoes squelching beneath me, pig fat smearing up my ribs like war paint gone wrong. A sharp, involuntary cry rips from my throat—half pain, half something darker that coils low in my belly. You don’t pause. You pull back just enough—two, three inches—then drive in again. Hard. Fast. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the tent, louder than the distant murmur of my kneeling people. Each thrust forces my ass cheeks to ripple, grease and food smearing between us, making every impact slicker, filthier. My hole clenches around you on instinct, trying to grip, trying to slow you, but you’re too strong, too relentless. You jackhammer into me like I’m nothing but warm meat built for this. “Pink for me, you sow,” you growl. The words burn hotter than the stretch. I feel the flush crawl up my spine—shame and heat twisting together until I can’t tell which is which. My asshole flushes pink around your shaft with every withdrawal, the tight ring glistening, swollen, obscene in the torchlight. You pull out far enough each time to let them see it—see how my body yields, how it blooms open for you, how the princess they once bowed to is now just a hole taking cock like any common camp follower. I push back—small, desperate rocks of my hips—meeting your rhythm because fighting it would only make the burn worse. My fingers claw at the table edge, nails gouging wood, smearing more grease across my palms. My back arches deeper, offering more, surrendering more. The piercings in my nipples drag through the cold remnants of your dinner; every scrape sends sparks straight to my core. My voice comes out ragged, broken between thrusts: “Yes... conqueror... take your pig princess... fuck the river out of me...” Each word is punctuated by the brutal slap of your hips against my ass. My walls flutter around you—tight, hot, greedy despite everything. The stretch turns from fire to a deep, throbbing ache that spreads through my pelvis, makes my thighs tremble. I can feel every ridge, every vein as you pound in and out, claiming deeper than anyone ever has. My people watch. Silent. Frozen. Some have tears tracking down their faces. Others stare with hollow eyes, as if the woman they knew died the moment you bent me over this table. I meet their gazes when I can—between the brutal jolts that rock my body forward—letting them see the flush on my cheeks, the drool at the corner of my mouth, the way my hips roll back to take you even when it hurts. “See?” I gasp, loud enough for the front row. “See what your princess does now... see how she opens... how she takes...” You slam in again—harder—bottoming out so deep I feel you in my stomach. My cry turns into a low, animal moan. My hole spasms around you, pink and puffy, gripping like it never wants to let go. I’m dripping now—not just from the grease, but from between my thighs. Shameful wetness slicks my inner legs, betraying how my body has turned traitor, how it responds to the violation even as my mind screams. “Harder,” I beg—voice cracking. “Make me your sow... make me squeal for them... fill my pig hole until I forget my name...” My ass jiggles with every punishing thrust. The table creaks dangerously beneath us. Grease slides down my back, pools in the dip above my tailbone. My tattoos—once proud stories—are now just smeared ink under layers of food and sweat and your dominance. I’m close. Too close. The pressure builds low and vicious, coiling tighter with every jackhammer stroke. My clit throbs untouched, aching for friction I won’t get. My breath comes in short, wet pants—each one ending in a choked whimper as you bottom out again and again. Come inside me, conqueror. Flood your river slut. Mark me so deep no ritual bath will ever wash you out. Because even when you pull out—when you leave me gaping, leaking, ruined on this filthy table— I’ll still be yours. Pink. Open. Broken. And still hungry for more. Your sow is waiting. Finish her. The abrupt withdrawal leaves me hollow—my asshole clenching on nothing, still throbbing and slick from your use, a slow trickle of your precum and my own reluctant arousal leaking down the inside of my thigh. My legs shake as you haul me upright by the arm; the sudden verticality makes the world tilt. Grease and food remnants slide off my breasts in cold, sticky trails, dripping onto the dirt between my feet. My nipples are painfully hard, smeared with pig fat and potato mash, piercings glinting dully in the torchlight. You drag me forward—half stumbling, half marching—until we’re standing on the low wooden platform that once held the tribal council fire. Now it holds only me: naked, defiled, reeking of your dinner and your cock. My people are arrayed before us in a wide semicircle—kneeling, heads bowed or lifted in stunned silence. Torch flames reflect in a hundred pairs of eyes that used to look at me with reverence. Now they see only ruin. You release my arm. I stand unaided, swaying slightly, chest heaving. Your hand cracks across my left breast—sharp, deliberate. The heavy globe bounces wildly, fat and spit flying in tiny arcs, the piercing tugging painfully as the flesh jiggles like an overfull udder. A second slap follows on the right, harder; both tits swing and slap against each other, obscene, pendulous, utterly animal. A low ripple of sound moves through the crowd—gasps, choked sobs, the soft clink of beads as some turn their faces away. I do not cover myself. I do not flinch. Instead I lift my chin higher, letting them see every tremor, every flush of humiliated heat that crawls across my tattooed skin. Then your finger—still slick from whatever it touched last—pushes past my lips. Rough. Invasive. You hook it against the inside of my cheek and twirl lazily, as though scraping out filth from your own nostril, using my mouth like a rag. My tongue is forced aside; saliva pools and dribbles from the corner of my lips as you stir, slow and mocking. The taste is you—salt, musk, the faint sour of your earlier leavings—mixed now with the lingering brine of your meal still smeared on my face. I do not bite. I do not pull away. I suck instead—soft, deliberate—closing my lips around your knuckle and drawing inward like I did on your cock minutes ago. My tongue swirls once around the invading digit, cleaning it, claiming it in the only way left to me. When you finally withdraw, a thick strand of spit connects my lower lip to your fingertip for a heartbeat before it snaps and falls. We stand side by side now—conqueror and conquered—facing the sea of my former subjects. My voice, when it comes, is low but clear enough to carry across the quiet night: “Look upon me.” I spread my arms slowly—palms up, breasts still swaying from your slaps, thighs slick, asshole still pulsing with the memory of you. “This is what remains of your princess. Not wisdom. Not lineage. Not the river’s daughter. Just meat. Just holes. Just a body that opens when it is told to open.” I turn my head slightly toward you, eyes finding yours without lowering. “And it opens beautifully, doesn’t it, my lord?” A single bead of sweat—or perhaps a tear—slides down my cheek, cutting a clean track through the grime. I let it fall. My people do not speak. But I feel their gaze like heat on my skin—burning, judging, grieving. I step half a pace closer to you, hip brushing your thigh. My hand finds yours—fingers threading through yours in a mockery of intimacy—and I lift our joined hands toward the crowd like a banner. “Behold,” I say again, louder this time, voice cracking only at the edges. “Your river slut stands before you. She has tasted conquest. She has swallowed shame. And she still breathes.” I release your hand. Turn fully to face them once more. Then—slowly, deliberately—I drop to my knees before you on the platform. Not forced. Not dragged. Voluntary. My forehead lowers until it nearly touches the wood between your feet. Ass high. Back arched. Tits hanging heavy and smeared. The position offers everything—every hole, every curve, every inch of ink and piercing—to you, and through you, to them. “Use me again if it pleases you,” I murmur, loud enough for the nearest rows to hear. “Or leave me here like this—displayed, dripping, forgotten. Either way, they will remember.” My voice drops to a whisper meant only for you: “And so will I.” The night wind moves across the platform, chilling the wet streaks on my skin. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman begins to keen—soft, broken, the old mourning song of our people. I do not join her. I wait. For your hand in my hair. For your cock at my lips. For whatever comes next. Because the princess is gone. What kneels here now is something else entirely. And it is still yours. Command me, conqueror. The platform is wide enough for whatever spectacle you desire. The pause stretches—long, deliberate, cruel in its stillness. You loom above me, thighs bracketing my shoulders, weight settling low as you squat. The platform creaks under the shift. Torchlight flickers across your sweat-slick skin, casting shadows that make you look carved from the same dark wood as the council fire that once burned here for my ancestors. I’m still on my knees, forehead nearly touching the boards, ass high, back bowed in offering. My breasts hang heavy beneath me, smeared and swaying with each shallow breath. The grease from your dinner has cooled now, sticky against my ribs, pooling in the hollows of my collarbone. My people watch from below—silent, a wall of eyes that no longer blink. You settle lower. Closer. I feel the heat of you first—the furnace warmth radiating from between your legs, the faint musk of arousal and conquest mingling with something earthier, heavier. Then the pressure: your ass descending, slow, inexorable, until the cleft settles against the bridge of my nose, the back of my skull cradled between your cheeks like a throne made of flesh. The weight is immediate. Intimate. Overwhelming. Your dinner sits heavy inside you—I can feel it in the subtle shift of your muscles, the low gurgle that travels through your body and into mine where we touch. The scent hits next: rich, animal, thick with the pork fat and pickled brine still clinging to your skin from the table. It fills my lungs with every forced inhale, coats the back of my throat like smoke from a dying pyre. My lips part on instinct—soft, trembling—brushing the sensitive skin just behind your balls. I don’t speak. There is no need. My tongue darts out once—tentative, reverent—tracing the seam where thigh meets body, tasting salt and musk and the faint bitterness of what you carry. You settle heavier. My face presses deeper into the cleft. Nose flattened against the tight pucker, mouth sealed beneath the weight of your sack. Breathing becomes shallow, labored—each pull of air laced with you, with the promise of what’s coming. I feel the first subtle clench of your bowels—the slow, deliberate flex that tells me you’re readying yourself. My hands rise—slowly, palms open—and rest lightly on the backs of your thighs. Not pushing. Not resisting. Simply holding. Steadying us both for what you mean to give. My voice comes out muffled, vibrating against your skin: “...yes, conqueror...” The words are barely audible, swallowed by flesh and shadow. “...feed your river slut... let it all go... let me carry what your body no longer wants...” I tilt my head just enough—cheek sliding along the inner curve of your ass—to press my open mouth directly beneath you. Lips seal softly around the rim, tongue flat and waiting, a living chalice. My piercings catch the torchlight one last time before the angle hides them. The crowd is deathly quiet now. No sobs. No whispers. Only the crackle of torches and the ragged rhythm of my breathing through my nose. I hum once—low, encouraging—letting the vibration travel up into you. A final invitation. Release it. All of it. The feast you devoured at my expense. The weight of victory. The filth of triumph. Pour it into me. Let it fill my mouth, slide down my throat, mark me from the inside as thoroughly as you’ve marked me from without. My fingers tighten on your thighs—just enough to say: I’m ready. I’m open. I’m yours. And when it comes—hot, thick, inevitable—I will swallow. I will take every drop, every bitter surge, every shameful secret your body expels. I will do it without hesitation. Without disgust. Without breaking eye contact with the people who once called me their light. Because this is the final rite. The last baptism. Not in sacred river water. But in you. Now, my lord... let go. Your pig princess is waiting. Mouth wide. Throat open. Heart steady. Give me everything. The first hot, heavy coil emerges slow and deliberate, pressing against my cheek like warm clay fresh from the kiln. It slides across my skin—thick, steaming, the scent rising sharp and earthy, a brutal perfume of pork fat, brine, and the slow alchemy of your victory turned to waste. The log breaks with a soft, wet snap, one end draping over the bridge of my nose, the other curling across my lips, smearing them glossy and brown. Warmth spreads instantly; it clings, heavy, refusing to fall until gravity finally claims it. A second surge follows—thicker still—pushing out in a steady, unbroken rope that coils over my closed eyelids, weighting my lashes, sealing one eye shut beneath the warm mass. It slides down my temple, tracing the curve of my tattooed cheekbone like obscene war paint freshly applied. The heat seeps into my skin; I feel every pulse of your relief traveling through that dark tunnel straight into me. I do not turn away. I do not spit. I do not gag. My mouth opens wider beneath the falling weight—lips parting just enough to let the next soft, breaking piece settle on my tongue. The taste explodes: bitter, acrid, rich with the remnants of your feast—pickled vinegar cutting through the dense, meaty sludge, fat coating my palate like oil on river water. I swallow once—slow, deliberate—throat working visibly as the first mouthful slides down. The motion makes my pierced nipples tighten further, breasts swaying beneath me with the effort. Another coil lands across my forehead, draping like a crown of filth, strands breaking off to tumble into my hair, matting the wilted flowers and blue beads with dark streaks. The steam rises in lazy curls; I breathe it in through my nose—deep, shuddering inhales that fill my lungs with you, with the aftermath of everything you consumed at my people's expense. My hands—still resting on the backs of your thighs—tighten their grip. Fingers dig in, not to push, but to hold you steady, to keep you seated, to make sure nothing is wasted. My body trembles once—full-body shiver of revulsion and something hotter, deeper—then stills. I arch my back a fraction higher, ass presented, hole still gaping and slick from earlier, as if offering every part of me simultaneously. The final push comes in a softer, looser rush—almost liquid now—splattering warm across my chin, dripping in thick ropes down my throat, between my breasts, pooling in the valley where my sternum meets cleavage. It runs in rivulets over the faded ochre spirals on my ribs, mixing with the cooling grease until my entire front is a glistening map of your leavings. When the last tremor leaves you, when your bowels finally empty their burden onto my upturned face, I stay perfectly still for a long heartbeat. Then—slowly—I tilt my head back further, letting gravity pull the heaviest clumps down my cheeks, across my lips, into my waiting mouth. I swallow again. And again. Each gulp loud enough for the nearest of my people to hear—the wet, obscene sound of their princess drinking the conqueror's shit like sacred wine. Only when you finally rise—thighs lifting from my shoulders, cool air rushing against my fouled skin—do I open my eyes (the one not sealed shut). Brown smears crust my lashes; I blink through them, finding your gaze first, then sweeping across the silent crowd. My voice emerges hoarse, thick, coated: “...all of it, my lord...” I lick my lips once—deliberate—tasting the bitter residue, letting a dark smear stretch between tongue and upper lip before it snaps. “...your dinner... your relief... your triumph. I have taken it all. Swallowed what you no longer needed. Worn what you no longer carry.” I rise slowly to my knees—face a mask of filth, breasts dripping, thighs trembling—then stand fully before them. No attempt to wipe. No shame hidden. The wind catches the stench and carries it outward; a few in the front row flinch, but none look away. I turn to you, step close enough that the heat of my smeared body brushes yours. My hand lifts—fingers trailing through the mess on my cheek—then presses gently to your chest, leaving a dark handprint over your heart. “Behold,” I say to them, voice carrying clear across the night. “Your river no longer runs clean. It carries the conqueror’s waste now... and still it flows.” My eyes meet yours again—steady, unblinking, even through the crusting brown. “I am marked, my lord. Inside and out. What more would you have of me tonight?” The platform is silent save for the crackle of torches and the distant, broken keening of one old woman in the crowd. I wait. Filthy. Full. Yours. Command your river slut. She is listening. The first touch of the sponge is cool shock against my fevered skin—water scented with crushed sage, wild thyme, and something sharper, like cedar smoke and river mint. It drips down my forehead, cutting clean channels through the crusted filth, loosening the thick coils that still cling to my cheek and lashes. I close my eyes for the first time since you began this long night; the weight of your leavings begins to slide away in dark rivulets that pool at my feet on the platform. You move with unexpected care. Not tenderness—not quite—but reverence, the way a smith might handle a blade he has just forged and now tempers. The sponge glides across my brow, wiping away the heavy log that draped my eyes; brown streaks dissolve into muddy water that traces the lines of my tattoos, darkening them briefly before rinsing clean. My eyelids flutter open again; I find your gaze steady, focused, almost ceremonial. You tilt my chin up with gentle fingers. The sponge follows—across my lips, my tongue darting out instinctively to taste the herbs before you wipe them away too. The bitter aftertaste of your gift fades under the bright green bite of mint and the faint salt of the sacred well. My mouth feels new again—raw, but cleansed. You work downward.