Dominion: Slumborn Rising
Chapter One:
The obsidian polished floor reflected the flickering glow of bioluminescent sconces lining the impossibly long hallway. The grand halls of House Frey were silent, save for the echo of boots against marble.
Each step he took echoed like a gunshot in the oppressive silence of the Frey Mansion.
Damon walked like he owned the place. And in a way, he did.
Men didn't stride through these halls, they shuffled, heads bowed, designated letters and numbers etched onto their collars the only identifiers that mattered. F-L N352. Farm Labourer No. 352.
Yet Damon walked. Back straight, gaze fixed ahead, clad not in the rough-spun burlap of the Slums, but in simple, clean linen trousers and a dark tunic that clung to his lean frame.
He moved with a casual, almost insolent grace, as if the weight of five centuries of matriarchal rule didn't press down on these gilded corridors. In a way, he did own this place now. Or at least, owned the terrified heart beating frantically behind the grand golden door at the end of the hall.
The mansion's opulence was a far cry from the filth of the Slums, where he'd spent his first eighteen years choking on dust and rotting food scraps. Now, gilded arches framed his path, and the air smelled of jasmine and power. The power he'd twisted to his will.
He reached the end of the hallway, where a door of solid gold stood, emblazoned with the Frey sigil: a serpent coiled around a sword.The symbol of a house that had once broken men like him beneath its heel.
Now, it was his heel they feared.
He didn't knock.
He pushed it open.
The chamber beyond was a study in obscene luxury. Silks the colour of blood and midnight draped the walls and enormous bed.Holo-projections of serene landscapes flickered subtly in corners, a pathetic imitation of a world long lost.
And there, perched on the edge of the bed like a nervous bird, sat Lady Astrid Frey. Ruler of Astra City. Scourge of the Slums. The woman whose whispered command could end a thousand male lives before breakfast.
Tonight, she was none of those things.
She was just a woman. And she was waiting for him.
Astrid lay sprawled across the bed, her body draped in silk so sheer it might as well have been air. The moment he stepped inside, her spine straightened, her breath hitching. Her eyes, usually chips of glacial blue capable of freezing blood, were wide, dark pools of naked hunger. They raked over him, the defiant posture, the sharp planes of his face, the contained power in his shoulders.
He met her gaze, his own expression unreadable, detached.
He scanned her body, a slow,deliberate assessment that made her shiver violently, a flush creeping up her neck. He didn't speak. He simply turned and pushed the heavy golden door shut with a soft, final thud.
"Damon," she breathed, the single word thick with longing and submission
"Strip."
A single word. A command.
And like the well-trained bitch she was, she obeyed.
Her fingers trembled as they worked the clasps of her gown, the fabric pooling at her feet. Naked now, her skin gleamed under the low light, her nipples already hard, her thighs pressed together-not out of modesty, but desperation.
He took his time looking at her.
Once, this woman had ordered the execution of a hundred men for even looking at her too long. Now, she stood bare before him, her body trembling not from fear, but want.
Pathetic.
He smirked, loosening his belt with deliberate slowness. The leather slid free with a whisper, and Astrid's eyes locked onto the growing bulge beneath his trousers.
She didn't wait for permission.
With a whimper, she dropped to her knees, crawling toward him like a starved animal. Her fingers fumbled at his waistband, her breath ragged.
"Please," she whispered.
He let her beg.
Her mouth was on him before he could taunt her further, her lips wrapping around his cock with a hunger that bordered on worship. She sucked him like a woman drowning, her tongue swirling, her throat working to take him deeper.
He let her.
Because this was the game.
The mighty Astrid Frey, reduced to a drooling slut on her knees begging for a Slumborn to fuck her hard, swirling, her throat working to take him deeper.
Her fingers clawed at his thighs, her moans muffled around him. She was close, he could feel it in the way her body shook, the way her pussy dripped onto the marble floor beneath her.
But he wasn't done humiliating her yet.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her off him with a wet pop.
"Look at you," he sneered. "The great Matriarch of Astra, gagging for a Slumborn's cock. What would your ancestors think?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her lips were swollen, her pupils blown wide with lust.
"Please," she begged again, her voice breaking. "Fuck me."
He laughed.
"Please, Damon," she continued, her voice ragged, stripped of all authority. "Please... fuck me. I need it. I need you inside me. Now."
Her hand moved between her own legs, fingers sliding through wetness, presenting herself. "I'm yours. Your slut. Use me. Ravage me."
Then he threw her onto the bed.
"Please," she begged again, her voice breaking. "Fuck me."
He looked down at her, the mighty Lady Frey reduced to a trembling, begging creature at his feet. The smirk returned, colder this time.
"That's all you are, Astrid," he stated, his voice chillingly calm.
"A desperate slut. A wet, willing hole begging to be filled."
---
Astrid Frey had ruled Astra City with an iron fist for twenty years. She had ordered floggings,executions, and worse. She had crushed rebellions before they could even whisper her name.
But tonight?
Tonight, she was just a writhing, moaning mess beneath him.
He didn't kiss her. He didn't caress her. He positioned himself, his gaze locked onto hers, seeing the frantic need, the surrender, the pathetic core beneath the crown. Then he drove into her, hard and deep.
Astrid cried out, a sound of pure,agonized ecstasy. Her back arched, her fingers clawed at the silk.
"Yes! Oh, Darkness,yes! Fuck me! Harder! Call me your slut! Your bitch!" she babbled, lost in the sensation he was ruthlessly imposing.
"You love this, don't you?" he growled,his voice rough now, laced with a contempt he didn't bother to hide. "Love being fucked like the worthless whore you are. Queen of Astra?
He fucked her like he hated her.
And she loved it.
Her nails raked down his back as he pounded into her, her legs locked around his waist, her cries filling the room.
"You're a slut," he growled, driving into her harder. "A filthy, desperate whore."
She came with a scream, her body convulsing around him.
He didn't stop.
Not until he was done with her.
Not until she was a trembling, sobbing wreck beneath him, her thighs slick with her own arousal, her mind shattered.
Only then did he pull away, leaving her gasping, her chest heaving.
Damon straightened his clothes, watching as Astrid curled onto her side, her breath still uneven.
She looked up at him, her eyes glazed.
"When will you be back?" she whispered.
He smirked.
"When I feel like it."
Then he turned and left, the golden door closing behind him with a final, mocking click.
The woman who ordered executions before her morning tea, who ruled with an iron fist and icy heart, was reduced to a sobbing, pleading creature beneath a man born in the filth of the Slums she despised. The irony was grotesque. Pathetic. A grim punchline to five hundred years of matriarchal supremacy.
The question now was:
How did a mere Slumborn like Damon, How did F-L N352, a number spat out by overseers, a creature deemed fit for only digging in the dirt of the Daxin estate, end up here, reducing the most feared Matriarch in Astra to a begging mess?