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The bass thrummed through the floor of the frat house, bodies pressed together in the humid dark. Jon Snow—all six-foot-two of lean, coiled muscle—had been dragged there by Sam, who'd already disappeared with a book and a bottle of something cheap. Jon stood near the keg, dark curls falling into his eyes, broad shoulders straining the seams of his black t-shirt.
Then he saw her.
Margaery Tyrell moved through the crowd like she owned it. She was small—five-foot-three of pure, spoiled Southern charm—with a slim, dancer's build and hips that swayed with dangerous intent. Her tits were perfect C-cups, round and full, pushing up against the neckline of her little gold dress. Dark brown hair cascaded past her shoulders. Her smile was sweet. Her eyes were predatory.
She walked straight up to him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and expensive.
"You look miserable," she said, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "Let me fix that."
She grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowd without waiting for an answer. Up the stairs, down a hallway, into a bedroom with a locked door. She pushed him onto the bed, straddled his hips, and kissed him like she was drowning.
Jon's hands found her waist, then slid up her sides to cup her tits through the flimsy fabric. She moaned into his mouth, grinding down against the rapidly hardening bulge in his jeans.
"Fuck," she gasped, breaking the kiss. "That's—that's a lot of cock you've got in there."
"You haven't even seen it yet."
"Show me."
He undid his belt, unzipped, and let his jeans slide down his hips. His cock sprang free—and Margaery's eyes went wide. It was enormous: well over nine inches, thick as her wrist, with a heavy, flushed head and thick veins pulsing along the shaft. The sight of it made her mouth water.
"Fuck me," she whispered. "That thing is impossible."
"Can you take it?"
She grinned, wicked and hungry. "I'm going to try."
She stripped off her dress, then her panties, and climbed onto him again. She reached down, wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock, and whimpered at the sheer girth of it. She lined it up with her soaking slit and sank down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until she'd taken every last inch inside her.
"Fuck," she moaned, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. "You're so fucking thick, Jon. You're stretching me apart."
He grabbed her hips and started to move, thrusting up into her from below. She rode him hard, bouncing on his cock, her tits shaking with every impact. The bed slammed against the wall.
"Look at you," Jon growled, staring up at her. His voice was dark, primal. "Taking every inch like a good little slut. You love that cock, don't you?"
"Yes! Yes, I love it! Fuck me harder, Jon—please—"
He flipped them over, pinning her beneath him, and drove into her with heavy, punishing thrusts. He was thicker than anything she'd ever had, and she was gone, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being split open on his cock. She threw her arms around his neck, kissed him sloppily as he fucked her, their tongues tangling together.
"I'm going to cum inside you," he said against her lips. "Fill you up."
"Do it," she begged, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Cum in me, Jon. I want to feel it." And when her own climax hit, she screamed into his mouth, her inner walls clamping down on him so hard that he followed her over the edge, filling her with a hot, thick load that she felt for hours.
---
Their relationship was instant, all-consuming. They were the perfect couple—publicly adorable, holding hands across campus, sweet Instagram photos every Sunday. Behind closed doors, they were insatiable. They fucked in the library stacks, in the back of his car, in the shower, in the stairwell of her dorm. The sex was athletic, athletic, relentless—but after a few months, even that wasn't enough for them.
They were talking about it one night, post-coital, Jon still buried inside her, both of them sticky with sweat and cum.
"I want to watch you with someone else," Margaery said casually.
Jon went still. "What?"
"I want to see you break some other girl on that monster cock of yours. I want to see her try to take it and watch her fail. I want to hear her scream." She ran her fingers through his dark curls, her smile all innocence and wickedness. "And I want to kiss you after."
It turned out she had a gift for it.
Margaery was a natural psychologist, a social manipulator of the highest order. She identified targets—girls in her classes, at the gym, at parties—and she worked them with charm and patience. She'd bring them back to their shared apartment, ply them with wine, and then casually suggest that her boyfriend had a very particular talent. She'd show them a picture of his cock on her phone, watch their eyes go wide with arousal and fear.
And then she'd watch.
---
The first one was Ygritte, the fierce little redhead from Jon's medieval history class. Ygritte had a wild streak, a mouth on her, and interestingly no fear of anything. Margaery had worked on her for two weeks, lying on the couch next to her, playing innocent and flirty, making Ygritte want to be the one he fucked.
The night came. Ygritte stood in their apartment, all fire and freckles, nervous and defiant. Margaery led her to the bedroom, pushed her onto the bed, and watched as Jon stripped.
Ygritte's bravado faltered when she saw the size of his cock. Her mouth fell open. "You're joking," she said.
"Take it," Margaery said from her armchair. "You said you wanted it. Take it."
Ygritte went down on him first, and even with both hands wrapped around the shaft, her mouth could barely take the head. Margaery watched, enraptured, as the redhead gagged and drooled around a cock that was bigger than her face. Then Ygritte spread her legs, and Jon drove inside her.
She screamed. It wasn't pain exactly—it was overwhelming, the sheer magnitude of him forcing his way into her small, tight cunt. Margaery watched her back arch, watched her eyes roll back in her head, watched him pound into her with a brutality that made Margaery's own thighs tremble with sympathy and envy.
By the end, Ygritte was a sobbing, whimpering wreck, her wild spirit completely shattered. Jon pulled out, and Margaery watched ropes of cum splash across Ygritte's shaking stomach. Then he turned to Margaery, pulled her against him, and kissed her deeply—tasting the other girl's arousal and his own cum on her lips.
Margaery was addicted.
---
Over the next three years, they perfected their system.
Margaery scouted. She'd to homecoming queen, club president, sorority girl, co-ed volleyball. She'd befriend them, bring them home, and then she'd sit back and watch Jon take them apart. She'd masturbate while she watched, orgasming as some sorority cheerleader was bent over their couch and broken by a cock she'd learned to love so much. She called herself his cuck queen, and the title fit her perfectly—a queen who ruled through sex, who delighted in the pleasure of her king.
But no matter how many girls came through their bed, they always came home to each other. They made love in the early morning, slow and deep, Margaery's legs wrapped tight around him while he whispered how much he loved her. They had wild, dirty, primal sex in the shower—Jon pressing her against the tiles, breeding talk on his lips, "Gonna fill you up, gonna make you mine," followed by a thick, warm creampie that she'd feel running down her thighs for the rest of the day.
In public, they told everyone it was love—and it was. They were in love, madly, deeply, overwhelmingly. The kink was just spice, just a game they played with other people in the sandbox. They were each other's, always.
---
They got married the week after graduation. Jon and Margaery Tyrell-Snow, a summer wedding in Highgarden, roses everywhere, hundreds of guests. The reception was beautiful, the first dance was perfect, and the moment they were alone in the honeymoon suite, Jon pinned her against the wall and fucked her until she cried.
"I'm going to get you pregnant," he whispered against her ear as he drove into her from behind. "First thing. I'm going to fill you with my cum until there's no question, until you're carrying my baby."
"Yes," she whimpered. "Yes, breed me, Jon. Make me yours. I'm your wife, your cunt, your everything."
He came inside her, and she felt his hot seed flooding her, and she knew it was done.
Six weeks later, she showed him the pregnancy test.
Jon cried tears of joy. They celebrated with champagne (sparkling cider for her), and they barely fucked the entire week—she was too nauseous, too tired, her body changing fast.
---
The Final Arrangement
Margaery was radiant throughout her pregnancy. Her tits grew from C-cups to magnificent Ds, her face glowed, and her desire became astronomically strong. But as her belly grew, her body became sensitive, achy—sex was uncomfortable at seven months, and by eight months, she was officially on pelvic rest.
That didn't mean she'd forgotten her husband's needs.
The night before her due date, she arranged for three women to come to their house. Ygritte, still hungry for the cock that had broken her years ago. Ros, a slick, experienced voluptuous woman from the next town who was as easy as the wind. And Talisa, a gentle, dreamy nurse from the local clinic who had a secret depraved streak, who told Margaery she wanted to be filled like she'd never been filled before.
Margaery sat on the couch, her pregnant belly making her a queen on her throne, and watched as Jon descended.
They took turns. Ygritte was first—a bangarang ride on their new leather sectional. Margaery watched, stroking her own belly, grinning as the redhead screamed. Then Ros—slick, dirty, letting him have her both holes while Margaery narrated. "That's it, take his cock, take all of it, he's going to fill you to the brim, just like he did to me." He creampied Ros, pulling out and spraying thick stripes across her back. Margaery laughed, delighted.
Then Talisa, who turned out to have a low, filthy disposition. She begged him to put a baby in her, even though she had an IUD. She cried when he came inside her, soaking her womb.
Margaery was on fire the whole time, rubbing her clit through loose yoga pants, soaking the sweatpants beneath her. Watching her husband with these other women—other women—was the hottest thing in the world.
But when they were gone, when the apartment was quiet and empty, Margaery waddled over to him and kissed him deeply. She tasted his arousal on his lips and whimpered.
"I love you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I love watching you. But it's still me."
"I know," he said, stroking his hand over her belly. "You're my queen."
"Come here," she said, lowering herself to her knees with a grunt. "My mouth still works."
She unzipped his pants, took his soft, glistening cock into her mouth, and nursed it back to hardness. She licked up his own cum and the lingering taste of three other women, and she loved it. She sucked him until he was fully hard, then he helped her back up, laid her gently on their bed, and straddled her, pressing his cock between her tits, gliding through the sweaty valley of them, groaning as she wrapped her hands around to squeeze them together.
"Such a good wife," he grunted as he fucked her tits. "Such a good cocksleeve."
"And you love it," she purred, licking the head as it emerged near her lips.
"I love it."
He came a few moments later, flooding her mouth with the mix of his own seed and the trace of others. She swallowed every drop, opened her mouth to show him, and smiled.
"I can't wait to have this baby, Jon," she said. "Then you're going to put another one in me. We're going to keep this going forever."
He knelt down and kissed her belly, right where their child slept, and then kissed her lips, the taste of him still sweet on her tongue.
"Forever," he promised.
---
The next morning, Margaery went into labor.
The hospital was chaos, but Jon was by her side the whole time. And when she held their daughter in her arms, she looked up at her husband—the man who had split her open in the best way, who made her his cuck queen, who filled her with cum and babies and love—and smiled.
"Let's do it again," she whispered.
The nurse in the hallway noticed the three women who visited the maternity ward that day, all of them looking strangely satisfied, but she said nothing.
Some secrets are better kept.