Forced Lesbian Submission Books 1-10 Read online

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  Copyright 2016 Adrian Amos

  Kindle Edition

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  Conquered by the Queen

  Conquered by my Therapist

  Conquered by the Goths

  Conquered by my Boss

  Conquered by my Coach

  Conquered by the Woman of the House

  Conquered by the Vandals

  Conquered by the Nerd

  Conquered by the Sirens

  Conquered by the Ghost

  Part of the “Forced Lesbian Submission” series

  By Adrian Amos

  Check out more books at my Author's page.

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  Contents

  Conquered by the Queen

  Conquered by my Therapist

  Conquered by the Goths

  Conquered by my Boss

  Conquered by my Coach

  Conquered by the Woman of the House

  Conquered by the Vandals

  Conquered by the Nerd

  Conquered by the Sirens

  Conquered by the Ghost

  Conquered by the Queen

  My tribe is conquered.

  Two nights ago our city fell, betrayed by one of our subordinate tribes. They had laid siege to our castle for nearly a week before my brave husband led a sortie out the gates. But the attackers were prepared. They ambushed him, killing him and most of our fighting force right outside the walls.

  It took no more than a day to realize we had fallen. We opened the gates and let the attackers in. It was the only thing I could do to prevent my people from starving to death.

  I was given two days for mourning, as is customary, before I am to be given my new orders. Orders I both dread but know I must perform.

  I am to be ravished by my new king.

  For now, I stand and watch as the pyre lights to the sky, consuming my husband―my king―with an intensity that grows as I think of the fire extinguishing my nascent bloodline. I had only been married to the king for 3 months; we had yet to conceive. It was my opportunity to do something with my name.

  Not long ago, I was just 19, a tailor's daughter. The king came into my father's shop to have some garments drawn up for a feast he was having. He took one look at me and decided I was his. But I know he chose my father's shop because my beauty was renowned in the area. I am soft and thin, with ivory skin and blonde hair to my waist. I had always been the fairest girl in my entire village, ever since I came of age. My father made sure I had never even looked at another boy. He was saving me because he knew my beauty would fetch a high price, possibly even a noble one. I think even he was surprised that the king took interest.

  See, in our tribal kingdom, beauty is everything. Our monuments and our art are dedicated to the beautiful queens that came before. And they are all beautiful. The king does not marry until he finds the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.

  And my beauty is what is going to get me ravished by the conqueror. I know this because it has been part of our history for as long as anyone can remember. My people are marked by betrayal and usurpation. My king's tribe has ruled the 12 tribes for the last 80 years, but the ruling tribe has been replaced countless times.

  It is our obsession with beauty that dooms us to civil war. With the focus on aesthetics, and the complete dismissal of the political motives of marriage, the leading tribe has always been incapable of sharing its power. Without the ability to blend tribes through intermarriage, the ruling classes have never had a reason to maintain order, as they have no way to garner power without aggressively seizing it.

  And once they win, they take that aggression and apply it to the thing that brought on war in the first place: The exquisite Queen.

  I will be ravished, I know it. It is inevitable. But I do not lose hope. I must maintain composure, because the one thing that makes the experience even slightly worthwhile, is that the new king may end up choosing me as his new Queen; it has happened before in our history. The deposed Queen, after all, is still one of the most beautiful women in the land. As much as the tribes war over the priority of beauty, men are still weak. Even as they despise the system, they continue to feed into it when given the chance. It is a hardy system, rebuilt just as quickly as it is torn down.

  After the funeral, I walk over to my makeshift tent within the castle walls. I undress myself from my black gown, sighing as I realize I am no longer attended by handmaidens. A life of luxury is accustomed to quickly and not soon forgotten. I hope when I see the king, when he takes me, he's convinced to take me as his wife as well. Going back to my father's shop seems like the worst fate imaginable.

  I am half-undressed when a man clears his throat behind me. I turn quickly, covering myself up with the gown in my hands.

  He smiles, as if knowing something already, and says, “The king is ready to see you, m'lady. Please come to Kingdom hall when you are ready.”

  “Now?” I ask, “Already? I just got through with my husband's funeral.”

  “Yes,” he says, “The king is not interested in waiting anymore.” As he steps outside the flap, he turns back to me. “Do not forget to wear your wedding dress, m'lady.” He exits.

  I turn toward the box in the corner. They had delivered my dress to me almost immediately after setting my tent up. This was also a custom, one I knew was coming. It was symbolic, an act of humiliation: The king was intent on defiling the marriage that defiled the kingdom.

  I need to get ready quickly, for I am sure the hall is packed with people of both tribes, ready to watch a monumental shift in leadership, to watch me humiliated and led back to the King's chambers to be violated. Again, the lack of handmaidens makes putting the dress on a chore, but I manage it well enough. I feel lucky that my dress is a little more modest, since the trek up to the hall is going to be difficult while lifting my skirt and carrying the train the whole way.

  I head up the path, keeping my focus on the ground in front of me. The last thing I want to do is fall and make my dress a mess. I certainly wouldn't impress anyone with that, and I have to make sure I am at my best when the king finally sees me. But most importantly, I don't want to look up and catch the gazes of my people, who are surely standing around watching me traverse the hill. They know what I am going to do; they know what is going to happen to me. I don't want to see that knowledge in their eyes.

  As I approach the hall's gates, instead of being met by guards, I am met by a pair of handmaidens. I am confused for a moment as to why they are there, but they start looking me over and examining my dress. I guess they just want to make sure I am presentable, and that I am actually wearing my wedding dress before I make my entrance.

  They hurry me through the halls until we are outside the throne room. They prep me, smooth out and unfurl my dress, and tell me I need to just walk until I am the proper distance from the King and then kneel. I was nervous before, but now my heart starts racing, because I know once they open those doors, I am going to have a lot of eyes looking directly at me, and events are going to transpire outside of my control.

  I swallow hard. I almost want to scream for them to stop, to not open the doors. But I know I do not have the power to do that anymore. I can't delay, I can only let it happen, even if my little heart wants to give way. But I need to keep my dignity. This is not just for my own future: My compliance is best for my own people. I do not know what would happen to them if I break protocol, break the customs that have built this kingdom. A deposed Queen has never done it. I have no idea what the consequences will be if I do not fulfill my duty.

  As the han
dmaidens push open the doors, the scene of the throne room is overwhelming from my new position. As I walk along the red carpet toward the throne, the eyes of nearly a hundred or more people are focused on me, crammed into what is normally a large and luxurious space. They are so tightly packed, I can see people hanging from the marble columns that parallel the walkway. There are people up against the walls, standing up on the marble settings below the portraits.

  Although I have seen the portraits countless times, they take on a different meaning from this angle. They are the portraits of Queens past, a collection of the most beautiful women to have ever lived in our realm, from the western forests to the eastern sea. So beautiful, you have to believe that the paintings do not do them justice, even if you have never actually seen them in person. You have this feeling as if the paintings could in no way capture their beauty correctly, in any medium, and you are always going to see a watered down version of reality.

  I looked on them before as my guardians and forebears from history and tribes past. Now they look on me as the next victim, most of them looking through me and knowing my feelings, as most of them have walked this very same walk. It feels as if everyone who exists and who has ever existed is watching me at this one moment.

  When I get to the right distance―about 30 feet from the throne―I kneel, my dress billowing around me. The crowd is strangely packed even this close to the throne, giving little room around me, making me feel constricted and trapped.

  As I look up at the throne, the King is a massive figure: large, tall, and stout, with arms as thick as my waist. This is a man built from the wooded labor of his tribe, as if he himself built the world from the ground up.

  He scares me, but I think about how secure I'd be in his grasp if he took me. Another thought strikes me as I kneel in front of him. Immediately, I imagine his dick, and the girth it must pack. I can't think of someone being that big without a member to match. I know what is going to happen to me, but this is the first time where I'm actually imagining getting fucked. This huge figure before me is so daunting, his power so obvious, that I can't resist thinking about him inside me, plowing me, grabbing me with his meaty paws, abusing me, ramming me, dominating my slender body. I have not had much sex in my life―my husband was on the front lines shortly after marrying me, and I knew no one before him―but the prospect of this submission is churning my desire like never before. My pussy tingles as my excitement grows. I actually want this to happen!

  “She's very pretty, isn't she, my King?” a woman next to the King says, her lips curling into a devilish smile.

  “That she is, my Queen,” the King responds. A good portion of the audience laughs, those that are part of the King's tribe.

  I look over to the King's left and for the first time notice the woman standing next to him. I had no idea he was already married, but that does not diminish my chances to be Queen: Kings have been known to dissolve their marriages so they could marry the deposed Queen.

  But at the look of her, she is no normal woman, not one that I have ever seen. She is older than me, tall with long legs; nowhere near as tall as the King, but far taller than myself. And she is beautiful, easily a woman suited for a portrait in this very hall, with auburn hair and sun-tanned skin. She seems as if she works her body as hard as the King works his, but hers merely a more feminine figure. But the strangest thing is her dress. It is not regal in any way; it is tight-fitting and short, clinging to her body, looking as if it were made of leather, made for tougher work. It almost seems to match the King's hide armor, the armor he wore throughout his battles.

  They stare me down, and I know I have to speak. I can't appear weak. Even if beauty rules everything, a strong will comes in at a close second. I have to touch on the custom; I know that is what people are looking for. “I beg my King's pardon...”

  Before I could continue, the King interjects, “Oh, look, the little princess speaks.”

  The audience erupts into laughter and blush rises to my cheeks. That has to be the most embarrassing thing he could call me. It makes me angry enough to speak up. “I-I am not a princess,” I stammer.

  The Queen jumps in, “Yes, you are, little girl. A girl as pretty as you? You're a petite, little princess. You're sure as fuck not a Queen anymore.”

  Her language makes me wince. I don't think I have ever heard that word uttered out loud between these walls.

  I try to ignore it. “I know it was my marriage to the previous King that threw this land into chaos, and I will do whatever it takes to undo the damage I have done.”

  “It sounds like you're trying to sell yourself, like a whore,” the Queen says, “Is that what you are, a little whore?”

  “No, I am not a whore,” I plea.

  “It sounds like you're trying to seduce my King.”

  I start panicking. I look to the King, but he just smiles, letting it continue. “I am not. I am just trying to perform my duty.”

  “Little girl, you know nothing about duty,” the Queen says, “You're just a little harlot the guy who sat here before picked up. You knew him for a few months; I wouldn't even call you his wife. He just used you and fucked you.”

  I'm aghast at her cruel words, but mostly just angry. “I was no harlot. I was Queen, chosen to bear the King's children and continue his bloodline.”

  “Ah, there, I fucking knew it. She still thinks she's Queen,” she said, walking briskly until she is a few feet from me. “You're just a little princess, nothing else.”

  The King laughs, “You're rough on the girl, aren't you?”

  She smiles, “You haven't seen rough yet.”

  I want to escape. It is hard having to bear this, but harder doing it in front of hundreds of people. “Does the King wish to take me away?”

  “Do you believe this?” the Queen says, walking back up the steps to the throne, “She actually thinks she can just waltz into your chamber and steal you away from me. Like you'd ever lay with a princess.”

  I finally understand. The Queen is trying to prevent the custom from continuing, from the possibility of losing power. She is not going to let me go back with the King.

  I gather my strength, ready to defeat her. “It is our duty to fulfill the customs of our tribe. With this ceremony, we pass over leadership, and erase the sins of our forefathers. The consummation is tradition.”

  The King slams his fist, silencing the room. “That's where you're mistaken. We don't need leadership to be passed over to us. We've already taken it.” The King sneers, “You really think I would give up my Queen for you, little girl?”

  The King stands up, bellowing in anger, "Your husband died because he was weak." He points a finger at me, "He married you because he was weak. When he could have had real power, he could have married a real woman." He glances over at his wife.

  The Queen smiles and nods at me condescendingly.

  "My family is not weak," he continues, "We are the strongest, and no custom is going to define us or destroy us."

  The audience is nearly dead silent up until the King says 'no custom', which causes a sudden thrum of murmuring to wash through. The wave is not disapproving, merely curious. I feel uncomfortable as the throng undulates just feet away from me, increasing my vulnerability as the crowd grows reckless.

  The King raises his hand and the hall quiets.

  His smile is devious. My heart skips: something tells me that what comes next will change everything.

  "But let's not get rid of custom," he says, relishing his words, "Let's start a new one." He turns toward his wife, "My Queen has devised a new ceremony. If sunken Queens want to be whores, then let them. But the only one they're going to serve is the rightful Queen."

  The King sits down as the crowd erupts, half of them excited, the other half astonished at the turn of events.

  I'm stunned, lost for words. This has never happened before in the history of our kingdom, and I do not know how to respond, I do not know what to expect. As much as this is an angry and forc
eful ceremony built on humiliation, I never really feared it. I knew what was going to happen, so much that I never felt the fear of what was inevitable.

  But now it is not inevitable. The circumstances have changed, and now it scares me beyond belief at what lays in store for me.

  As the crowd continues its raucous unsettling, the Queen comes down from the throne steps and approaches me again. She looks over my shoulders and shouts, “Strip her!”

  “What? What are you doing?!” I say, moving to get off my knees. But my arms are grabbed from behind by two handmaidens. I struggle and pull, but they lift me to my feet, holding me in place as two more handmaidens bring shears to my wedding dress and begin cutting it from my body.

  “You're getting your custom, little princess. This is what you wanted,” the Queen says.

  “No, leave me alone,” I scream, but it is too late: they have made quick work, shredding the wedding dress my father made for me. The days of work he put into crafting my perfect dress, the dress I wanted since I was a little girl, were lost to the fragments scattered about me.

  I feel like that should have made me cry, but I'm too concerned with my state of undress. She left me with nothing but my corset and undergarments. I break free one of my hands from a handmaiden to cover myself, but I am quickly restrained again, with my arms pulled out perpendicular to my body.

  There is a mixture of awe and laughter coming from the audience. I look around and see hundreds of eyes watching me be humiliated.

  The Queen steps up close to me, inches from my face, until all I can focus on is her. She is gorgeous: her green eyes stand out against her auburn hair. Her face long, her cheeks sharp, her chin pointed. Before I can react, she leans in, wraps her arm around my waist, and plants a hard kiss on my lips. I struggle shortly, but the softness of her lips give me pause for a moment, and I freeze to soak it in.

  As she pulls back, I ask, “What are you doing?”

  “Do you not listen, princess?” she says, nearly whispering in my ear, “I'm giving you what you want.” At that, she hooks her hand over my corset and pulls down, exposing my breasts to all of Kingdom hall.