The King’s Men: is this the opposite of a breeding kink?

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Next in the wank tales series, a fantasy I have about being a tavern wench who is dragged forward to service a medieval king when he demands ‘wine, food and women.’ Note that this story features aggression, brutality and sex that can best be described as ‘only very dubiously consensual.’ In my head, when I wank to it, ‘The King’s Men’ is a rape fantasy (these are extremely common , and they do not mean that those who have them wish to be raped!). Here I have tried to subtly weave in a bit more consent than I usually would when I’m masturbating, but it’s still fundamentally non-consensual/extremely coerced. I also want to flag that while these things are extremely fun to enjoy in my mind (I have a kink for misogyny and I’m into consensual non-consent play), you OBVIOUSLY shouldn’t rape anyone in real life, or indeed play with this dynamic unless you’ve discussed limits and preferences in a LOT of detail beforehand. If you don’t understand that, or if you just know that these types of fantasy aren’t for you, please skip this one. The King’s Men After the hunt, they descend upon the tavern. We’ve had lords in here before, and we’re used to minor royalty, but in the three decades since my father took ownership from his father, we’ve never welcomed His Majesty himself. The hunt was extremely successful, and the men burst inside high on victory, nearly tearing the doors off in their high spirits. I, like the other staff, tremble and avert our eyes from his imperious gaze. I busy myself collecting glasses, wiping the benches, sweeping the floor: trying in vain to make this grubby little establishment seem fit for royalty. “Drinks!” the King roars, and slams his fist on the largest of the tables. His men gather around him and cheer, passing mugs of ale which they quaff in just a few gulps before shouting for more. The King declares it ‘piss!’ and hurls his mug to the ground, demands bread and meat and wine. Hunting is hungry, thirsty work and we know by reputation that this is a man of great appetite. Shaking with nerves, I start edging backwards into the corner by the door, hoping I can avoid notice until I’ve had time to slip outside and into the fresh air. The sound of their raucous singing sets my nerves on edge, like the noise of the hunt horn must panic nearby prey. I’m desperate to leave lest I get caught. Too late though: far too late. “Bring me a woman, too!” the King demands, his bold eyes scanning the room for the most likely specimen. “Ugh,” he continues. “Slim pickings here.” Then he points at me with one thick finger and declares “her: she’ll do.” The owner of the tavern swallows his shock, puts a lid on his outrage and dips a bow: “yes, your majesty.” I observe his obsequious bow, noting with disgust how readily he threw me to these dogs. I consider shaking my head and running away, but I know it’s no good. Besides, if the king wishes to use me then there could be a great honour nine months in my future. The act itself – the casual brutality of it – will appall me, but perhaps it’s worth enduring for the priceless reward it could bring. The bastard child of a king is still, after all, royal blood. And a son by this grotesque, entitled, red-faced man would still be worth more than a tavern-full of gold. When one of the King’s men steps forward to claim me, I comply. Feigning just a hint of resistance and struggle as he drags me to the table and pushes me down: the King’s a huntsman after all, he won’t want to catch his prey too easily. I squirm a bit as I’m bent over the table, but there are multiple pairs of hands to pin me down: some take my wrists and arms, others restrain my shoulders, one man puts what feels like his full weight on the small of my back. I realise I am conquered. I knew it was inevitable. It does not take me long to relent. The King doesn’t speak to me as he uses me. Instead he talks to the men who surround him – the ones who whoop and cheer and urge him on. He tells them ‘ that’s what I need after a hard day’s ride’ and ‘lift up her head, tear her bodice. Let me see those tits.’ To the tavern owner: ‘she’s a credit to you,’ as he grunts and slams it home. Sometimes he seems mesmerised by what he’s doing, staring down at the pinkness of my cunt, where the flesh is being split by his rigid, imperious cock. Other times it’s like he’s performing – ramming into me with such power that I have to bite my lip to keep from squealing. It’s like he wants to show his men how best to break me in. The men around him urge him onwards. Harder, faster, more. Do it. Go on. Fuck her. Use her up. They begin a chant, in time to his thrusts. Banging on the table with bare fists and mugs that splash ale onto my skin and in my hair. Chanting, cheering, thumping on the wood until I can no longer determine where each man sits, and who is inside me and why I am here. It’s a cacophony of noise and brutality and confusion: the only constant is the smart, rhythmic thrusting of the King as he uses my cunt like I’m nothing. I wince and grimace, but I bear it. Focus on the chance at bearing fruit. A brand new life. Respect and money and titles and the safety that comes when you’re consort to the King. He’s nearly there now, I can feel it. One or two more strokes of his cock and he doesn’t just squirt but he pours cum inside me. What feels like pints and pints of the stuff. Thudding deep and powerful, filling my cunt so well that when he withdraws it starts to spill out down my thighs. A breath. A beat. What feels to me like the end. I let out a long sigh, and realise I’ve been holding my breath for too long. I’m light-headed. “Now,” says the King, wiping his cock on the tatters that once were my skirt. “Let’s make sure no bastard will come of it.” And to my horror I hear the other men start to unlace britches and slide their erections out. I feel someone new pressing against my cunt, from where the King’s seed runs, still warm, down my slit. “Your turn,” he tells the men, who are now jostling to be the next in line. “Fill her up. Be my guest. Rinse her out. ” As the first man dumps his load inside me, the King cheers in approval. Slapping him on the back as he shudders in release. “Fuck every last drop of my own cum out of her,” orders the Regent, like he’s directing the hounds in the hunt. And like all good hunting dogs, they do as they are bid. As a pack, they tear me apart.