The air in the Glimmerwood wasn't just air; it was a living, breathing thing, thick with the scent of ozone and decaying blossoms, and it made Lyra’s head spin. Each step away from the mortal borderlands felt heavier than the last, the simple wool of her travel cloak—a queen’s disguise—itching against skin that was beginning to hum with a foreign magic. Her kingdom’s fate rested on the dagger at her hip and the desperate bargain in her heart.She found him at the heart of a clearing, where bioluminescent moss painted everything in shades of silver and blue. Prince Oberon wasn’t seated on a throne but reclined against the massive, twisting root of an ancient oak, looking for all the world as if he had been expecting her. Which, she supposed, he had.“A mortal queen,” he said, his voice a low melody that vibrated through the soles of her boots. “Walking alone into the heart of my power. Either very brave, or very foolish.” His eyes, the colour of polished amethyst, tracked her every movement, missing nothing. Not the way her hand trembled. Not the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.“I am Lyra of Eldoria,” she announced, forcing her voice to steadiness. “I have come to—”“—to beg,” he interrupted smoothly, a smirk playing on his impossibly perfect lips. “They all come to beg. But you… you brought a blade. An interesting form of negotiation.” He nodded toward the dagger she’d forgotten was visible.Her cheeks flushed. “It is for protection.”“From what? The big, bad fairy prince?” He unfolded himself from the root, and he was taller than she had imagined, his form lean and powerful, emanating an aura that made the very light bend around him. He took a single step toward her, and the undergrowth at her feet stirred. “Your kingdom withers. Your people starve. The blight that blackens your fields is a echo of a wound, a grievance my court holds against a mortal king three generations dead. Your bloodline.”The confirmation was a physical blow. She had suspected, but to hear it from him made it terrifyingly real. “Then let me make amends. I offer myself. My service. My… anything. In exchange for my people’s lives.”Oberon closed the distance between them, his scent now engulfing her—rain on stone and wild, sweet nectar. He didn’t touch her. Instead, he simply circled, a predator assessing. “Your service? Mortal service is a fleeting, fragile thing. It rusts and breaks. I require something more… substantial. A connection. A covenant.”Hope, thin and desperate, flickered in her chest. “Name it.”He stopped behind her. She stiffened, her senses screaming at the proximity. This was it. The moment. She expected a demand for her firstborn, her soul, her eternal vow.“I want your pleasure,” he whispered, his breath cool against the shell of her ear.Lyra’s thoughts screeched to a halt. “My… what?”“Your pleasure. Your surrender. Not taken, but given. Freely.” His hands came up, not to grip her, but to hover just inches from her hips. “The magic required to undo this ancient curse is primal. It is woven from desire and release. I need your mortal energy, amplified by ecstasy, to power the spell. Your willing climax will be the key that turns the lock.”The proposition was so alien, so intimate, it stole the air from her lungs. This was not the noble sacrifice of a queen offering her life; it was something far more vulnerable. “And if I refuse?”“Then you may keep your precious pride,” he said, his voice losing its melodic warmth, turning flinty. “And take it back to a kingdom of bones and dust. The choice, Queen Lyra, is entirely yours.”She saw them then. In her mind’s eye. Old man Hemmett, who had taught her to track deer. Little Sari, who left wildflowers on the castle steps. Her Captain of the Guard, standing watch over fields of rot, his face grim with despair. Their faces were worth more than her discomfort. More than her pride.She let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Not a defeat of body, but of will. “Do it.”A low, approving hum resonated from him. “Then let us begin.”He didn’t give her time to reconsider. The world erupted in movement. From the canopy above, from the moss below, vibrant green vines shot forth with impossible speed. They were warm and smooth, like living silk, and they coiled around her wrists with gentle but unyielding strength. With a soft gasp, she was pulled forward, her arms stretched out before her, the pose forcing her back to arch and her rear to press out against the thin fabric of her trousers.Another tendril snaked around her waist, holding her firmly in place. She was tethered, exposed, utterly at his mercy. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and a shocking, unwelcome thrill of anticipation.She heard the rustle of his clothing behind her, then a soft, sharp intake of breath. A light, a soft golden glow, began to illuminate the clearing, casting her own long, bound shadow before her.“The covenant is struck,” Oberon murmured, his voice thick with a power that was now palpably filling the air. “Now, the conduit.”She felt the press of him then, not of flesh, but of that concentrated, glowing energy against the seat of her trousers. The fabric, to her astonishment, simply dissolved under its touch, not burning but unraveling into nothingness, leaving her lower half bare to the cool, magic-charged air. His hands gripped her hips, his touch surprisingly hot compared to the cool vines.Then she felt it.The length of him pressed against her, and a strangled cry caught in her throat. It was unlike anything she could have conceived. It was alive with magic, thrumming with a power that vibrated deep into her marrow. It was slick with what felt like glowing dew, and it glittered as if dusted with crushed diamonds and starlight. And it was… immense.“Breathe, mortal,” he commanded, his voice gentle but firm. “The magic will prepare you. But it requires your consent. Always.”She nodded frantically, her face pressed against the cool, fragrant moss of the root her hands were bound to. “Yes. Yes. I give it. Please.”That permission was the final key. The glittering, engorged crown of him pressed against her entrance, and the stretch was immediate and devastating. Lyra cried out, a sound that was half-pain, half-shock, as he pushed slowly, inexorably inside. The vines held her perfectly still, allowing no retreat, forcing her to feel every impossible inch as he filled her.It was a stretching, burning fullness beyond任何已知的事物, a claiming so profound it felt like her very soul was being rearranged to accommodate him. She was stretched taut, every nerve ending screaming as he slid deeper, the magical slickness easing his passage but doing nothing to diminish the overwhelming sensation of being filled so completely.He paused when he was fully sheathed within her, his hips flush against her rear, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The pain began to shift, to morph, the magic thrumming through him sending waves of something else through her core—a deep, resonant pleasure that started to burn away the ache.Oberon leaned over her, his chest pressing against her bound back, his lips again at her ear. “Now, Queen Lyra,” he whispered, the promise a sacred vow in the hushed clearing. “Now, you will learn the price of salvation. And its reward.”He began to move.“Now…

The air in the Glimmerwood wasn't just air; it was a living, breathing thing, thick with the scent of ozone and decaying blossoms, and it made Lyra’s head spin. Each step away from the mortal borderlands felt heavier than the last, the simple wool of her travel cloak—a queen’s disguise—itching against skin that was beginning to hum with a foreign magic. Her kingdom’s fate rested on the dagger at her hip and the desperate bargain in her heart.

She found him at the heart of a clearing, where bioluminescent moss painted everything in shades of silver and blue. Prince Oberon wasn’t seated on a throne but reclined against the massive, twisting root of an ancient oak, looking for all the world as if he had been expecting her. Which, she supposed, he had.

“A mortal queen,” he said, his voice a low melody that vibrated through the soles of her boots. “Walking alone into the heart of my power. Either very brave, or very foolish.” His eyes, the colour of polished amethyst, tracked her every movement, missing nothing. _Not the way her hand trembled. Not the rapid pulse at the base of her throat._

“I am Lyra of Eldoria,” she announced, forcing her voice to steadiness. “I have come to—”

“—to beg,” he interrupted smoothly, a smirk playing on his impossibly perfect lips. “They all come to beg. But you… you brought a blade. An interesting form of negotiation.” He nodded toward the dagger she’d forgotten was visible.

Her cheeks flushed. “It is for protection.”

“From what? The big, bad fairy prince?” He unfolded himself from the root, and he was _taller_ than she had imagined, his form lean and powerful, emanating an aura that made the very light bend around him. He took a single step toward her, and the undergrowth at her feet _stirred_. “Your kingdom withers. Your people starve. The blight that blackens your fields is a echo of a wound, a grievance my court holds against a mortal king three generations dead. _Your_ bloodline.”

The confirmation was a physical blow. She had suspected, but to hear it from him made it terrifyingly real. “Then let me make amends. I offer myself. My service. My… anything. In exchange for my people’s lives.”

Oberon closed the distance between them, his scent now engulfing her—rain on stone and wild, sweet nectar. He didn’t touch her. Instead, he simply circled, a predator assessing. “Your service? Mortal service is a fleeting, fragile thing. It rusts and breaks. I require something more… _substantial_. A connection. A covenant.”

Hope, thin and desperate, flickered in her chest. “Name it.”

He stopped behind her. She stiffened, her senses screaming at the proximity. _This was it. The moment._ She expected a demand for her firstborn, her soul, her eternal vow.

“I want your pleasure,” he whispered, his breath cool against the shell of her ear.

Lyra’s thoughts screeched to a halt. “My… what?”

“Your pleasure. Your surrender. Not taken, but _given_. Freely.” His hands came up, not to grip her, but to hover just inches from her hips. “The magic required to undo this ancient curse is primal. It is woven from desire and release. I need your mortal energy, amplified by ecstasy, to power the spell. Your willing climax will be the key that turns the lock.”

The proposition was so alien, so intimate, it stole the air from her lungs. This was not the noble sacrifice of a queen offering her life; it was something far more vulnerable. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you may keep your precious pride,” he said, his voice losing its melodic warmth, turning flinty. “And take it back to a kingdom of bones and dust. The choice, Queen Lyra, is entirely yours.”

She saw them then. In her mind’s eye. Old man Hemmett, who had taught her to track deer. Little Sari, who left wildflowers on the castle steps. Her Captain of the Guard, standing watch over fields of rot, his face grim with despair. Their faces were worth more than her discomfort. More than her pride.

She let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Not a defeat of body, but of will. “Do it.”

A low, approving hum resonated from him. “Then let us begin.”

He didn’t give her time to reconsider. The world erupted in movement. From the canopy above, from the moss below, vibrant green vines shot forth with impossible speed. They were warm and smooth, like living silk, and they coiled around her wrists with gentle but unyielding strength. With a soft gasp, she was pulled forward, her arms stretched out before her, the pose forcing her back to arch and her rear to press out against the thin fabric of her trousers.

Another tendril snaked around her waist, holding her firmly in place. She was tethered, exposed, utterly at his mercy. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and a shocking, unwelcome thrill of anticipation.

She heard the rustle of his clothing behind her, then a soft, sharp intake of breath. A light, a soft golden glow, began to illuminate the clearing, casting her own long, bound shadow before her.

“The covenant is struck,” Oberon murmured, his voice thick with a power that was now palpably filling the air. “Now, the conduit.”

She felt the press of him then, not of flesh, but of that concentrated, glowing energy against the seat of her trousers. The fabric, to her astonishment, simply dissolved under its touch, not burning but unraveling into nothingness, leaving her lower half bare to the cool, magic-charged air. His hands gripped her hips, his touch surprisingly hot compared to the cool vines.

Then she felt _it_.

The length of him pressed against her, and a strangled cry caught in her throat. It was unlike anything she could have conceived. It was _alive_ with magic, thrumming with a power that vibrated deep into her marrow. It was slick with what felt like glowing dew, and it glittered as if dusted with crushed diamonds and starlight. And it was… _immense_.

“Breathe, mortal,” he commanded, his voice gentle but firm. “The magic will prepare you. But it requires your consent. _Always_.”

She nodded frantically, her face pressed against the cool, fragrant moss of the root her hands were bound to. “Yes. _Yes_. I give it. Please.”

That permission was the final key. The glittering, engorged crown of him pressed against her entrance, and the stretch was immediate and devastating. Lyra cried out, a sound that was half-pain, half-shock, as he pushed slowly, inexorably inside. The vines held her perfectly still, allowing no retreat, forcing her to feel every impossible inch as he filled her.

It was a stretching, burning fullness beyond任何已知的事物, a claiming so profound it felt like her very soul was being rearranged to accommodate him. She was stretched taut, every nerve ending screaming as he slid deeper, the magical slickness easing his passage but doing nothing to diminish the overwhelming sensation of being filled so completely.

He paused when he was fully sheathed within her, his hips flush against her rear, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The pain began to shift, to morph, the magic thrumming through him sending waves of something else through her core—a deep, resonant pleasure that started to burn away the ache.

Oberon leaned over her, his chest pressing against her bound back, his lips again at her ear. “Now, Queen Lyra,” he whispered, the promise a sacred vow in the hushed clearing. “Now, you will learn the price of salvation. And its reward.”

He began to move.

__“Now…__

A desperate queen ventures into the enchanted Glimmerwood to save her kingdom, offering herself to the fairy prince Oberon. In exchange for her people's lives, she must surrender to his primal magic, experiencing a profound, otherworldly pleasure as he claims her in a ritualistic act of surrender and salvation.

A queen risks her realm to bargain with a fairy prince, facing a primal ritual of surrender and ecstasy. Explore her enchanted desire now.

Queen's Enchanted Surrender to the Fairy Prince

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Queen's Enchanted Surrender to the Fairy Prince

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