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Never was there a fortuitous time for his rut to strike. It had taken hold of him in the Shunning Grounds just as fiercely as any time after, endangering him as he was stricken with lust so terrible and demanding that even when hiding in a corner from an Omenkiller on a purge he could not part his hand from his member. Now he had the safety and the space to suffer the rut in peace. If only he paid attention. If only he'd noticed the signs.
He should have seen them that morning, but had dismissed the aching of his muscles and the heat in his belly as his curse manifesting. Now he sat stiffly upon his throne at court, as still and silent as a statue as a nearly painful pressure built in his loins. His curse manifested, indeed, but in a way he did not predict.
Whatever bellyaching the nobility surrounding him were concerned with was lost to the thunder of his pulse in his ears. His heartbeat pounded in a ceaseless rhythm. The thumps drowning his hearing were followed a half-step behind by the throbs of his cock.
He wondered, at times like these, if his experiences as a youth had corrupted him.
His ruts were so much gentler when given the time to spend them alone. The fear of being caught fanned his need so much hotter.
Surrounding him were trusted members of his council. They relied on his steady leadership and trusted in his rule. Nearly all present were men and women he knew by face and name, whose trust he'd earned not only by reputation but by building personal rapport.
A dampness trickled from Morgott's slit.
He shut his eye and breathed deeply through his nose, trying to still his booming heart and push away the memories. He had been so close to finishing when the mask emerged from the shadows. The spike of terror that mercifully gave him sense and strength to flee up the drainage pipes also pumped blood to his loins more strongly than he'd ever felt before. That animal terror warred with an animal lust, causing an erection so hard it made him dizzy--
"Your Majesty?"
Reality came screaming back into focus, and Morgott was pulled free of the whims of his body to face his court once more. Pragmatism overcame his desire. He anchored himself in details of the world outside himself. On the fine blue robes of the newest thorn in his side. On the shining masked faces of the many council members flanking the hall.
So many people were present in his court even on the slowest days. Most were nobles and his advisors. In truth, he suspected many only attended for entertainment from the spectacle of what Morgott found to be routine: settling petty concerns and worries of the many issues for which people needed the judgment of a lord. Rare was it that there was true trouble brought to him in such a manner.
Those who believed this was the best way to ingratiate themselves to him were mistaken. Often he would delegate judgment to his advisors and to them alone because of their specialized knowledge in the area. Rare was it now that he required advice in these matters. He never sought the advice of the noble brats that attended only to try and further their own status, though their attendance was permitted by right of their lineage alone.
Others present were his court stenographer and a few knights in his service, lacking the torches of holy light which illuminated the unseen. They were posted at every door as a formality. His Veil could not risk being punctured by his own men, regardless of the risk to his life. A rare servant dodged underfoot, as unnoticed as any assassin until one's service was required.
Unlike the grandeur of the Elden Throne, the throne upon which Morgott sat was simpler. A simple red carpet led to it, and the people in the hall gathered to its sides to make way for those who sought his attention. Beautiful, ageworn tapestries covered the walls. Cast upon the room was a dreamlike golden glow of the Erdtree through tall windows, and where the Erdlight did not reach, the corners were illuminated with torches.
He turned his gaze up to the ceiling, allowing his eye to follow the twisting length of an Erdroot that had begun to inquisitively poke itself through a window some decades past. The throne room was old, and worn, and tired. Just as he.
Morgott's blood cooled enough for him to recollect himself and remember the reasoning for this utter farce of a court to be called. He prayed that his distractedness was perceived as deliberation.
"Thou insisted upon an early court this morn to address issues of great concern. Pray tell, what hath thou presented thus far which demandeth the attention of a king? Mine court is quite capable of handling most concerns beyond typical hours. Perhaps thou might even find their expertise in thine specific concerns more prudent than mine own."
It was the most diplomatic way Morgott ever confessed he had no idea what was happening.
"... Though I admit it seems petty at first, your Majesty, I must impose upon you for this matter." The crack of the supplicant's voice sent a surprising shiver down Morgott's spine.
"The lineage of my family's stallions is one of the most important things we hold claim to. I know that your most esteemed knights ride them into battle."
"Aye. No other can claim such a large breed. Mine Sentinels are much appreciative of mounts--" Erdtree above, to mount something, anything! "-- of mounts which may bear their stature."
He kept his focus utterly on this supplicant. To waver would be to be lost to his lustful fantasies again. From the corner of his eye he caught the worried looks of those few who knew him well enough to sense something amiss.
"Then I'm glad you understand, your Majesty, what is so important about this. The sudden and quite suspicious appearance of another line of horses with such great size is quite disruptive. There are many unsavory rumors--which I am first to defend against--questioning how this might have happened. But to lay the matter to rest, I wish for a thorough investigation. You can understand the need for an impartial third party."
Of all the troubles that could be laid at his feet on this day... Some vague, cold dread at such horrible luck finally quashed some of the need he felt. Morgott's tail became restless at the presence of this nuisance. He took care not to snag its horns on the carpet.
"Thou trouble the Grace-Given Lord with rumors of illicit horse br-eeding?" His voice shook on the last word. The need roared back into full strength.
Mercy of Grace, his leg twitched as though to launch himself from his throne to breed this sniveling fool before his entire court. Ne'er had he felt desire for a man so unappealing. His rut wanted for nothing more than a warm body and hole he could stuff. But there was naught about this supplicant which Morgott found attractive, and he was grateful for such a small mercy. He could not imagine how damned he would be if this man before him had broad shoulders or soft curves or a gravelly voice--
He clamped down on that line of thought, but it was too late. A sting of cold air kissed his tip. His slit had begun to open.
The slightest movement would now see him freed of his sheath entirely.
The thin veneer of his Veil, casting an illusion of gilded finery across his accursed form and the rags he garbed it in, somehow made him burn even hotter. He felt all the more perverse for it; why did he choose to wear so little? He wondered if the Veil's power could hide the monstrosity threatening to burst free of his loins. Some wild thought asked if he wanted it to.
"The rumors are... quite salacious. Not just the expected questioning about whether one of my own studs were 'harvested' without permission. That, of course, would merely suggest recklessness and failure on behalf of my family. No, the rumors I speak of are that of The Fell, " the thrice-damned supplicant paused for dramatic effect, and a few curious murmurs rippled throughout the court.
Especially noisy, he noted, were the notorious gossips among them. It would appear he was late to catching the latest tale circulating about Margit. Odd, given that a few of his loyal men would usually tell Margit of them in the hopes that he would... what, he didn't know. Silence the rumors, somehow?
"They say that these horses are of... curseborn breeding. That the Fell Omen... copulated with a mare."
Arousal slammed through Morgott and his hands gripped the arms of his throne so tightly he felt the wood crack. He gasped deeply, his hips canting forward as the flared, equine head of his cock popped free of its sheath in one mighty surge. Some part of him distantly felt grateful that his court was thrown into disarray by the impropriety of such a declaration. His council's affronted response covered his strangled groan.
Morgott was lost in the sense of relief, the pressure finally released, even as his sheath stretched so far around his girth that it introduced a new agony. No thought passed through his mind save for the sensation of freedom--the sweet caress of cool air on his pre-slicked head--until the court began to comport itself again.
Then Morgott had to confront his own condition. His glassy, unfocused eye sharpened, and he cast it wildly across the faces of his council, seeking evidence that his shame was exposed.
He did not look down.
The illusion would hold. It must hold. If it did not, he could not draw further attention to his throbbing, aching, proud--
"Utter nonsense, of course. But it reflects poorly upon your loyal beast. And, I am afraid to say, upon your Majesty's own reputation, for being associated with him."
The court took Morgott's prolonged silence as deadly offense, and grew quiet. All eyes were on him. Morgott feared that if he shifted an inch, all would hear the wet schlick of his bestial organ sliding further from its sheath. Surely this man did not know the nature of Margit's cock? It must be an unfortunate coincidence, that the rumor was of Margit mating with a creature his phallus was shaped for.
He felt crushed by the watchful eyes of so many people.
His prick was undeterred. If anything, it preened under the attention. Nay. Perhaps he preened under the attention. The fear of being caught while ensnared by his most base of instincts ignited his lusts just as much at court as it had in the Shunning Grounds. He would be damned just as surely if they were to uncover him.
The thought of being exposed to all present caused an involuntary clench of his loins, and out surged several more inches of his shaft to the air. Morgott wet his lips to try and disguise the deafening sound.
"That thou wouldst share such tasteless rumors within this court..." Even this deep within his rut, the fire was quenched at least a little by entertaining the thought of mounting a beast. "Speaks poorly of thine manners and sense."
Perhaps he ought drop the Veil and provide a demonstration that, regardless of its appearance, his dick was meant for humans. His nature as an Omen was to be a danger to Graceborn folk. He was too large, too strong, and too hung for humans to take without irreversible change. But his nature still did not drive him to pair with animals. Omens even as deep in their ruts as he still desired to spread their curse unto the blessed.
He flexed his fingers on the arms of the throne and his tail lashed with restless energy. Every fiber of Morgott's being desired to open this man up and ruin him. As an example to the court of the nature and proclivities of Omens. A fire in his belly compelled him to rip this pathetic supplicant from his clothes and stretch and soil and violate him so fully that he would never be satisfied by another human again.
Erdtree forgive him, how far has he fallen?
Morgott choked on a wretched cocktail of guilt and want, and was left nauseous. His cock throbbed unabated. It instead drooled its obscene desire, which dripped agonizingly down its length.
The slick had long since soaked his thighs. He wondered how long until the Veil failed to conceal it dripping off the seat of his chair. Even if he were to call an end to this pointless court and leave, he feared it would be too noticeable when he arose.
He drew a slow, calming breath, and sat up straighter from the subtle slouch his 'unsheathing' had lowered him to. The throbbing of his cock did not lessen in rhythm or intensity, but he could weather it.
"Wert thou to bring to me rumors of others breeding thy stallions without thy permission... Wert thou to bring me rumors of Margit sullying a human with his--" Morgott stifled himself from describing the lurid fantasies he was having of the many ways he wanted to sully a human, "--But to suggest an Omen is capable of producing offspring with a mare is the fool gibbering of a rumor-mongering shit-stirrer. Begone of mine court!"
All present were stunned and cowed by Morgott's uncharacteristically crass behavior.
He would apologize to those offended later.
Later, when he could think about more than how his prick was throbbing with every heartbeat, spilling endlessly down his shaft and between his thighs to sully the throne below him.
Later, when he could think of reasons why pinning this supplicant to the ground and breeding him the way he had claimed Margit bred horses was a bad idea.
Later, when he wasn't losing himself into fantasies about how he had the stamina and the seed to fuck his way through every person here and have lust left to spare.
But that would all have to wait. For this supplicant was but one of many. And the morn had yet to start.
-----
Dare he say it, Morgott was beginning to feel comfortable. Not relaxed--he could not possibly be relaxed with the endless twitching and dripping between his legs--but comfortable. Yearning in self-denial was becoming its own sort of pleasure.
The ebb and flow of people into and out of his court with concerns he found mostly unworthy of his time had a predictable pulse to it. Though perhaps not as predictable as the endless thudding in his ears. Familiar routine eased the fear that he might be discovered. For him, it was a battle against his will and body. For them, it was no different than normal. It sent lewd thrills to both the tips of his tail and his dick to know how much he lusted while no one else was the wiser. The longer one individual remained in his court, the higher his lust would build. Then in the gaps between, when attention was mercifully removed from him and people were not hanging off of his every action and breath, his arousal eased.
Perhaps, to be more accurate: the strain on his willpower eased. His physical condition only grew worse. His erection had not flagged even slightly since the morning horse nonsense, and if anything, had only gotten harder. The veritable fountain between his legs would not stop gushing its need, no matter the lack of touch granted.
He had to send for water frequently to replace what he wastefully spent. The seat of his throne was so drenched that he dared not stand until he was the last to depart from court.
The opportunity to escape and slip free would come during lunch. He could clean his filth from the throne and depart, sending word of his illness from the safety of his room and allow his council to serve in his stead whilst he rode out the following days.
So he waited, and he throbbed, and he lusted and thought lurid thoughts of each person to pass his vision, counting the hours until he would be free.
A few minutes after a rather uncomfortable acknowledgment and acceptance of a far-too-young noble's unfortunately-timed first day at court--complete with traditional robes--Morgott saw them off and shifted just so.
A small spark of gratification.
It wasn't much. It wasn't nearly enough--damn it all he was half a step from grabbing the servant handing him more water and forcing them to warm his cock for the rest of the session--but it was good.
He dismissed the servant before he reached at them, the dip of their collarbone beneath their simple garb tempting him like a man starved, and subtly adjusted the way he sat again.
Nothing.
He almost snarled his frustration, only catching himself in the slightest twitch of a sneer when he noticed he was being watched.
It was a perfumer, but garbed in the darkened cloth of one who had fallen to depravity. Though their reputation was low in the eyes of the public, such people were hardly banned from his court. After all, their sacrifice of their bodies was invaluable in the wars of the Shattering. But perfumers that were not the head of the guild were rare; this one must have noble ties to be permitted access to his throne room.
Morgott acknowledged the onlooker with a polite incline of his head. His gut clenched with embarrassment, boldness doused by a reminder of just how depraved his own actions were.
Another spark of pleasure deep in his bowels coincided.
Morgott did not break eye contact, though he lifted a brow at the impassive eyes which still stared back, as he deliberately tightened the muscles in his gut.
It wasn't enough. When fucking a dozen men and women in a row wouldn't have been enough, a clenched muscle surely wasn't.
But his prick jumped against his belly, and spurted slick to dampen the trail of fur there.
He deliberately did not react by throwing back his head and keening at finally getting any sensation at all. Instead, yet aware that he was still making eye contact, he turned his attention away from the rather imprudent observer to gaze around his court.
People milled about the hall with less formality than typical, most preparing to take their luncheon before returning to trap him for the eve if he did not flee.
He clenched again and reveled in the stimulation.
It almost frightened him, the discovery of such subtle masturbation. If this wasn't just a result of the oversensitive nature of his rut, he could see himself easily spending his time doing this wherever he could--be it here in court behind his Veil or hiding in the shadows in ambush of enemy Tarnished. He could have himself ready for them, and pounce down with his cock already erect and dripping, so that he might stuff the flared head into their mouths and douse the flame of their ambition in the endless deluge of his foul Omen seed.
A sharp clank caused him to jump from his fantasies, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "May we reconvene in half an hour, take thine rest where ye see fit," Morgott announced. Hopefully people would take the hint that they should go elsewhere. With a motion to his knights, he ensured they too would depart and grant the privacy he required.
Many more members of his council had caught on by now that something was wrong. He was given several looks of concern as people departed. Let them worry over his presumed illness. Morgott would accept their misplaced concern if it helped to obscure the truth. His hands reflexively grasped at the damaged armrests of his throne as he tried not to blatantly rut into the air with the clenching of his belly.
He almost did not mind the languid pace at which people departed. The tight sensation at the root of his dick every time he tensed just right was delicious. He allowed himself to become lost in the clench and release of his muscles in time with the pulse of his twitching prick. How had he weathered so many ruts and not discovered such bliss?
It took so much of his lingering restraint to keep from being lost in the sensation, and when he looked up, the room had emptied.
Nearly everyone had left, save one.
That damned perfumer.
Morgott nearly roared when the man started to approach.
The throne room would be empty were the perfumer to leave. Morgott would wipe up the mess with his damn tail for all he cared. He wanted to get back to his room! He wanted to touch his cock! He wanted to cum!
"I beg your pardon, your Majesty," he said, with sharp eyes that said they knew too much. "I suspected this was not something you would wish to discuss in front of others."
Morgott remained silent. He hoped his dour expression would be enough of a deterrent. Given the sort of self-assured and pompous fools to grace his court today, he should have known better.
He needed to cum!
"I noticed how defensive you were of The Fell Omen. I also know what time of year it is. It is common for Omens to be in season, is it not?"
Morgott cock twitched at the accusation and clenched involuntarily. He had to bite his tongue to avoid vocalizing just how much the perfumer was right.
"...Truly, Perfumer? Is this what thou felt the need to trouble me over?"
"I simply think it's odd you were so confident he was not pursuing 'creative' methods of release during this time of year," the perfumer continued.
There were a dozen reasonable arguments Morgott could make as to why that was the case. He could formulate none of them, too preoccupied wondering whether he could produce enough seed to dye the perfumer's cape white again with the volume of his load.
"Unless you know of a better place for him to find reprieve. Omens do prefer people when they can get them." The perfumer pointedly eyed Morgott's sweat-soaked body; a Veil only did so much to hide his condition. "And that is a very... distinctive smell, your Majesty."
Morgott was stricken all at once just how strongly he smelled of rut. He reeked like bestial lust and cum. The room smelled of it. How many other people had noticed it was coming from him? His face and neck and ears burned hotter than his curseblood ever did when set ablaze. His pride and shame warred as he fought the urge to hide within his hands.
Unbearable silence stretched on between them, damning Morgott further with every moment he did not refute the accusation.
"Thou dost suggest something obscene and in violation of every value the Golden Order holds dear," he warned too late.
The perfumer was not cowed. If anything, he became more self-assured and smug with every passing moment. The repugnant knowledge that the king was laying with an Omen seemed to be its own reward.
The shame only caused Morgott's hammering pulse to climb ever higher. And with it, he nearly doubled over with the demanding ache in his cock. He leaned on an arm of his throne as he failed to catch his breath, lurid thoughts barely held in check from compelling him to touch himself.
There was not much more he could lose by giving in. The only thing that stayed his hand was the fear that he would be unable to stop.
"I imagine there aren't many options for a man of your size, but an Omen, your Majesty? And one like that must have so much to offer. It's impressive you managed to get to court if he's in season. With a stench like that, surely he's stuffed you full. Could you measure his output in buckets?"
"Thou wilt know it soon enough if thou dost not hold thine tongue," Morgott rumbled, more beast than man. But it was a low threat, and an empty one. Even a man as wretched as this one was undeserving of such a fate. Morgott would not lay a finger upon the Graceborn even if his bestial urges cried for him to dominate and breed.
Morgott labored under the relentless and perverse gaze of the perfumer as he struggled to piece back together his composure. If this perfumer already had made such assumptions, he had no reason to hide anything. He could flee now, wipe off the mess he'd spilled on his throne and escape back to his room. But the shame which had once kept him in check, kept him disciplined, now amplified every spark of lust and pleasure he felt.
If he stood, Morgott was convinced he would fall to his knees, crippled by desire before making it a single step. The more shame he felt at such an idea, the more his arousal overwhelmed him. He kept his eye closed and tried to slow his breathing. His own disgusting scent burned in his nose and reignited his need with every breath.
Then a different scent pricked his nose. Sharp and bitter. His erection did not abate, and yet he felt as though his mind had been freed of its control.
He opened his eye to meet the still mocking and arrogant gaze of the perfumer.
"It wouldn't do for the Lord of Leyndell to be revealed as the cock sleeve of The Fell Omen."
Morgott thought he could see the perfumer grinning under that mask.
"And the smell in here is potent. The very least I can do is clear the air."
Morgott felt no gratitude. He was equally anchored to the present by bitter perfume and by impotent hatred of being at the perfumer's whims. There was no reason to be grateful to someone who took such pleasure in his humiliation, even if they misunderstood the true nature of that shame.
He almost felt steady enough of mind and body to stand and leave when the doors swung open and his council began to fill back inside. Morgott pinned the perfumer with a glare of contempt, but whatever his expression actually conveyed only provoked delight. When he returned attention to his court, he caught many looks of concern. Wordless worries that his health was so dire that he would be willing to seek aid from a perfumer of ill repute, and that the perfumer had done something to draw his ire.
The ever-present throb and drip of his cock remained at a disconnect from his mind. It was no less intense, but no longer ruled him. While he worried other perfumers might recognize and question the medicine used on him, at least the smell had indeed covered the scent of bestial rut.
But Morgott would never forgive the perfumer who was quietly retreating into the crowd; regardless of the time he'd bought, Morgott was yet trapped in his court by the perfumer's actions.
-----
Regardless of the effects of the perfume, Morgott still found himself rhythmically clenching his muscles. It was all the more embarrassing that he no longer was ruled by his rut and yet chose to indulge regardless. Of course, because of how his corrupted lusts twisted fear and pleasure together, the embarrassment made it all the more desirable.
He did his best to focus only on the person before him, and did not allow his gaze to rove over the court. It was a behavior he'd learned long ago to avoid. The weight of a Demigod's sight and complete attention was something that cowed even the bravest nobles in his court. But Morgott could not risk looking into the crowd and catching the eye of that depraved--that utterly and truly depraved-- perfumer.
As he continued to explore what pleasure he could bestow himself without his hands, the acute focus Morgott paid to the sensations deep in his belly forewarned him of two things.
First, he was working his way closer to orgasm at a slow and certain pace. Being antagonized and mocked by the perfumer should not have had such an effect on him regardless of how close he was, but the perfume he'd supplied in wicked mercy did not equally balance the arousal he'd caused with his mockery.
Second, he was going to need to pee. Apparently not all of the water he drank throughout the day was immediately pouring back out of him through his eternally drooling dick.
The animal need to cum which the perfume had abated would soon be replaced with the desperate need to piss. He feared what might become of his tenuous willpower if the perfume wore off and he became preoccupied with both.
Instead of dousing his desire, the cold fear of that possibility made the next clench of his muscles tighter and more intense, and he shifted slightly to press his thighs together and strengthen that sensation.
"It is pointless to try and extract more from one's citizens than they art capable of providing. I will ensure the landslide will be taken into consideration by thine lord come time to collect taxes," Morgott promised.
He refocused his attention to the timid commoner knelt before him, and swallowed as he imagined finishing now and soiling her soft brown hair with his seed. He imagined soiling her... in other ways.
"'T-tis great relief you would show such sympathies, y-your Majesty."
The mangled arms of his throne had seen better days than this one, crushed as often as they had been today in his desperate need to ground himself from perverted thoughts. A girl so sweet was undeserving of such foul intentions.
Her 'lord', unfitting as that title was to such a man, was not so sympathetic. "Your Majesty, please, the commoners only sent their prettiest representative to try and sway you. They have been shirking their dues for years, now."
This man, however pretty his own face might have been, was not nearly as persuasive as she. Morgott idly imagined how the court might react if he decided to show him a better use for that wagging tongue.
No. He was in control now. He was not going to fall down such lines of thought of his own volition.
"It seems thou wisheth for mine c--" Morgott choked off the end of that word with a heavy, conspicuous cough. "Mine sympathies, when there hast been evidence of thou increasing taxation for as long as thine subjects hath been complaining."
Morgott wondered if the girl would help him fuck some sense into this lordling. If she rode him while Morgott filled him from behind, perhaps he would see the error of his ways.
He bit the inside of his cheek to bring himself back to reality.
That's not how that works.
That's not how any of this works.
His court was not his personal harem from which he could pick and choose partners to debauch and debase... Though just that thought was too strong for him to resist the masturbatory clench of his belly and thighs.
The pinch of the stretch of his sheath had been forgotten quickly in the relief of his cock slipping free. But now it was demanding his attention again, a growing sting that momentarily confused him. Why trouble him again now?
Then he realized his penis never fully escaped from its sheath without his hand to aid it.
The knot.
The cursed knot.
He had slowly, without realizing until he was confronted with it, crept so close to completion that his knot was starting to swell.
The knot which was currently trapped inside of him.
Finally, a cold panic managed to do what no humiliation had yet managed, and doused his libido.
Part of him felt relief as the swelling abated, and the other, bestial side of him driven feral by rut was angry at losing such tediously hard won progress.
He growled low in his throat.
A yelp jolted him back to the present, and cooled his embers further.
It was a difficult reminder that he remained at court, and as pointless as it seemed, sometimes those who sought his aid truly needed it. Sometimes they even needed it more than he desperately needed a warm hole to fill now.
"Worry not, child," he soothed. "I am merely angered on thy behalf."
It was taxes. Taxes were meant to be boring and tedious. There was nothing erotic about disputes over poor tax policy.
"Thou wilt find no sympathy from me, lordling. Lower thine taxes to a just amount for people suffering hardships to pay, and I will consider the matter settled. Pray, do not give reason for this matter to be brought to mine court again."
It did not take much longer for his occasional shifts and clenching muscles to become ways to bring relief to his need to piss as much as they were to bring him pleasure. Each moment that trickled by in court was becoming tortuous. Morgott sat on the edge of knotting, struggling to keep himself from going further, while his entire being screamed for completion. Whether he was first going to wet himself or knot his own sheath in front of his court was unknown to him, but as each second passed he became more certain at least one of these would be inevitable.
And now that he was made aware of it, Morgott could not stop perceiving the smell. The perfume was fading. Both its effect on his mind and its concealment of the stench of animal rut had become inadequate. He stole glances at the masked faces of his council, but it was impossible to tell if they noticed.
The more he toed the line of that sensation, the more he was convinced it wouldn't be so terrible. Perhaps the stretch of his knot swelling inside his sheath would hurt, but he was becoming convinced his body was pliant enough to take it. It might even feel more intense than a normal orgasm.
And so Morgott added that to the many angles from which he had to defend himself from all day, against a rut so determined to make him think indulging his lust in full view of the court was a very good idea.
He didn't know when he'd lost control of his breathing, but he'd adapted deeper, louder breaths. His hair was damp, and he was sure he appeared visibly ill. He glanced above him at the sunlight cast upon the wall, nearly lost within the ever-present brightness of the Erdtree, and watched with misery at its slow descent.
Then, mercifully, the sound of the final pin falling from the candle to strike the bowl ended the last session of court. The noise was so loud in Morgott's ears that he jumped, and a few droplets of some form of liquid spurted up onto his belly. The pressure in his bladder was so great that he could not guess which it was.
"I believe we hath settled this quite succinctly," he told the noble before him. Had they? Morgott had no idea, he hadn't been paying attention. "If thou disagree then thou mayest argue with mine advisors, elsewhere. Today's court is adjourned."
With a scowl, he challenged all present to consume his time of what must now be an obvious apparent illness. None did. He chased off remaining concerned stragglers with the glare he'd once leveled at Radahn upon his assault of Leyndell.
Morgott was no longer able to slow his breathing from rapid pants, and his composure began to crumble as the last few people departed from his court. In some small mercy, he did not sight the perfumer again. Somehow, that was both disappointing and worrisome. What would he do with his belief of the King and The Fell Omen's affair? What rumors might he fan?
Damn it all, he would worry about that later.
Later, when the threat of humiliation was no longer enticing.
But after the last of the nobility departed, Morgott was still unable to move. He couldn't bring himself to release the grip he had on the throne. To let go would be to surrender.
He waited, as if he might somehow get the strength to move if he gathered himself a moment.
All he could do was listen to the obscene slicking sounds of his rocking hips, no longer constrained by the need to be subtle. It was though he was witnessing his body from a stranger's view, his body acting on its own animal compulsions. Morgott's willpower was spent. There was no reason to control himself any longer.
With a single hand, he grasped the Veil which hid his face and finally, finally, flicked it aside and surrendered to the rut.
Even knowing what his body would appear to be beneath his regal illusion, Morgott was unprepared for how filthy he was. His hair was slicked to his arms and chest by sweat, and his thighs and hips drenched with pooling pre.
His cock stood as tall and proud as it had been for the entire day. It was nearly black from the concentration of his cursed blood keeping it turgid, and he could now see it throb in time with every pulse. It shined with his slick and continued leaking even now.
The knot was swollen enough to be noticeable, and swelled even more as he took note of how stretched and raw his slit was.
Morgott longed to touch himself so badly he found he was unable to move. Instead he shifted his hips in slow circles, and watched as his cock jumped with every clench of his belly. He was mesmerized by his own perversity.
The ache of his bladder kept him from being able to fully lose himself in the sensations, and yet it intensified every motion. It was not dissuasive enough to stop him.
Something was missing, he realized.
The embarrassment.
The shame.
The onlookers that would jeer and cry out in shock.
Morgott slung his soiled, ragged cloak in the direction of the Veil so that he could properly expose himself.
Just imagining his court was still present compelled him to thrust into the air.
He spread his legs, braced them on the ground, and pressed his pelvis forward off the chair, bucking with one huge motion that slapped his cock against his belly. A loud, animal moan echoed in the empty throne room, the sound a blend of something human and something not, and he was stricken by a wonderful blend of shame and pleasure to know that it was him.
Morgott leaned fully back onto the arms of his throne to give a better view to no-one in his audience of zero. How he wanted to weep for the lack of viewers to properly witness his humiliating display. All ought see the debauchery their beloved king had fallen to.
He arched as far as he could, until his back the wet pool of his slick. His arms quivered not from effort but from need. The higher he pressed his hips, the greater the beautiful joy of his shame would build.
In all of his ruts he had never felt the desire to display himself in such a way.
He could not imagine any future rut without this.
Some whispers of his fantasies ghosted his ears, questioning if that was all he was going to do.
So Morgott began to slowly roll his hips into the air again, using his tail for balance so he could spread his legs further and display himself properly.
With each thrust, a throbbing pinch made itself known just behind his slit. The knot so desperate to finally be full was struggling to swell inside of him.
He bucked harder, allowing himself more of the filthy, animalistic moans as his cock slapped against his belly with every thrust. What a sight he imagined himself to be, slinging hot ropes of his pre wildly across his body and soiling the carpeted floor. Every strike of his cock against him caused bolts of pleasure-pain. His throbbing shaft and flared head finally got the stimulation they craved. His knot was tugging against his sheath with every swing of his prick's substantial weight.
Morgott glanced down his body to watch his hips fuck the air, and his breath caught as he saw the Erdtree's light cast its brilliance across his body. A mad thought crossed his mind that he looked beautiful, and with it, he was lost.
He humped without inhibition, focused on nothing but the bliss of his cock with every impact. Anyone could wander back into his court and witness him like this. The thought made him dizzy with want. Oh, to be caught! There was nothing more terrifying, and no possibility that had ever aroused him more. But simply being his own watcher was enough to spur him to greater fervor. As he felt his mind was about to go blank with his building orgasm, his knot popped free with a sudden, sharp pain.
He halted in his movements briefly, half expecting to cum on the spot, but the pressure in his bladder was too great.
Yet he needed to cum. Morgott continued his bucking and humping with desperation, gritting his teeth and snarling. After so long of waiting, he just couldn't finish!
Finally, he made to touch himself, hoping the friction of a calloused fist would give him what he needed to push him over the edge.
But releasing the arm of his throne made him lose balance. He slipped in the pre beneath his back, and the startle was enough to make something in him give.
Hot, acrid piss sprayed across his chest and trickled up into his beard. Morgott's eye rolled up at the relief it brought him. His head lolled back and his horns scratched gouges into the fine artistic carvings of his throne. His mouth fell open as the emptying of his bladder relaxed him. The heat of his piss soaking his body felt lovely. He rolled his hips in pleasant circles, and an errant stream caught his face directly. The knowledge that he would never forget the taste of his own piss brought him naught but sparks of pleasure at his shame.
Morgott imagined that the perfumer wished he knew the stench he was making of himself now, not only clouding the air with his bestial rut but also with his piss.
As the stream finally trickled to a stop, Morgott basked in the bliss of his self-made degradation. But his ever-throbbing cock demanded attention, and so he started to thrust again, this time unburdened by the pain of his bladder.
Though the piss on his body was already cooling rapidly, he was unbothered. He burned too hot in his rut. All that mattered now was chasing that long-denied orgasm.
Every thought of rutting, and breeding, and dominating that he had throughout the day came back in loose and disorganized pieces, serving as nothing but fuel to help his pursuit.
He needed to breed, and if he could not, he needed to be seen.
"Erdtree above," he prayed sacrilegiously.
The lack of a hole or even a hand around his dick did not slow him from viciously spanking it against his belly. The newness and the depravity of the act carried him where lack of sensation fell short. The sound alone was lewd enough to make his face hot. Let him slap his cock against his underside in the same manner as the breeding stud he had been accused of being. Let the people bear witness to his shameless perversity, to his utter humiliation--
Morgott cried out in agonizing pleasure, arching back in an orgasm so powerful with his knot so full and tight that it hurt, whining like a kicked hound for several seconds before it gave way to mindless bliss. The needy throbbing and twitching of his cock finally became spasms of relief. He bucked in time with the contractions and slung thick ropes of his seed messily across his body and the floor in powerful shots. He swore he felt the bulges of his heavy loads pumping through his cock.
His muscles slowly unwound, releasing him from the ridiculous pose his old body had held for far too long, until he collapsed all at once in an uncomfortable heap in his own mess.
But his cock continued to discharge shot after shot, the volume barely abating with each successive load. It was one feature of his curse that he could find no honest hate for. Morgott's orgasms lasted so much longer than a human's.
He leaned uncaring on the soiled seat of his throne, arranging himself to more comfortably watch his prick sow his seed across his thigh, or his chest, or the floor, or wherever its twitches happened to direct it. He absently wiped a handful off of his cheek. Tired, pleased grunts occasionally slipped past his lips. Mind empty of any coherent thought, all he could feel was pride and satisfaction at just how much he had to give.
It took time for his ejaculation to wind down, and for his mind to slowly come back to him. When his orgasm finally tapered to an end, Morgott turned aside and took stock of the mess he'd made. His body from his chest to his thighs was caked in his cum. He was sitting in a damp puddle of various fluids, and his throne was cracked and gouged by his hands and horns. He reeked twice over.
He was too satisfied, too tired, to feel any more embarrassment. Only a flicker of weariness as he considered all of the work required to clean it.
His cock was at half mast still, though thankfully no longer so hard that it ached. The knot had deflated into a barely noticeable bump. His rut would last for days, and it was unlikely to fully soften until it passed.
But with or without him, court was going to be held tomorrow.
Morgott glanced over the massive carpet stretching the length of the room, and followed its length up to the disgustingly soiled end he sat upon. Then at the throne he'd destroyed. He did not need to breathe deeply to know the smell.
... This might not be something he could hide in a single evening.
Perhaps... perhaps court did not need to be held tomorrow.