1535 – Hampton Court Palace
Lady Eleanor Ashford stood trembling in the flickering torchlight, her fine velvet gown clutched tightly to her chest. At nineteen, she had come to court only three weeks past as a lady-in-waiting, full of pious hope and naive ambition. Now she knelt on cold stone in a hidden chamber beneath the palace, surrounded by twelve masked noblemen and the Duke of Blackthorn.
“You stand accused of stealing a silver chalice from the Queen’s chapel,” the Duke said, his voice smooth as poisoned wine. “A hanging offense… unless you entertain us tonight.”
Eleanor shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, my lord. I am innocent. I am a married woman. A God-fearing—”
“God is not here,” the Duke interrupted. “Only cocks and seed. Remove her gown.”
Rough hands seized her. Despite her struggles and screams, they stripped her to her linen shift, then tore that away too. Her pale, untouched body was exposed to their hungry eyes — full breasts, narrow waist, and the soft patch of dark curls between her thighs.
“On your knees, wench,” one growled.
They forced her down. One by one, the men opened their breeches.
The first thick cock slapped against her cheek. Then another. And another. Soon a circle of hard, throbbing manhood surrounded her face.
“No… please…” she whimpered.
The Duke gripped her jaw. “Open.”
When she refused, a guard pinched her nose until she gasped. The moment her lips parted, the first man thrust forward, flooding her mouth with hot, salty cum. She choked, trying to spit, but strong fingers held her mouth closed.
“Swallow, my lady,” the Duke commanded softly.
She did. The bitter taste slid down her throat.
Then they began in earnest.
Cock after cock erupted across her face, her hair, her breasts. Thick ropes of semen painted her cheeks, dripped from her chin, and ran in sticky trails down her neck. The smell was overwhelming — musky, masculine, obscene. One man aimed directly into her open mouth, then another, forcing her to gulp down load after load while the others laughed.
By the time the twelfth man finished, Eleanor was a glazed, sobbing mess. Her once-beautiful face was covered in a shining mask of cum. It dripped from her eyelashes. It coated her tongue. She could taste nothing else.
The Duke wiped a streak from her breast and pushed his finger between her lips. “Lick it clean.”
She obeyed, broken and trembling.
For the next two weeks, Eleanor became the Duke’s secret pet.
Every few nights they summoned her. Sometimes it was eight men. Sometimes fifteen. Once, after a great hunt, nearly twenty courtiers and favored guards used her in the stables.
They always focused on her face and mouth.
They called it her “baptism.”
They made her kneel in her finest court gowns while they ruined them. They forced her to hold her tongue out like a communion wafer as they painted it white. They laughed when she gagged and cried, then praised her when she began to swallow faster just to make it end sooner.
The worst part was how her body betrayed her.
At first, the taste made her retch. But night after night, something twisted inside her. The thick, warm texture. The heavy, salty-bitter flavor. The way it coated her throat and lingered for hours. Even during daylight prayers in the Queen’s chapel, she could still taste the previous night’s loads. Her cunt grew shamefully wet whenever she remembered the feeling of hot seed splashing across her face.
One night, after a particularly brutal session where twenty men had used her, the Duke held her cum-drenched face in his hands.
“You’re starting to crave it, aren’t you?” he whispered.
“No,” she lied, even as her tongue unconsciously licked a stray drop from her lip.
The breaking point came on the night of the masked feast.
The Duke had gathered twenty-five men in the secret chamber — nobles, captains, even a few foreign dignitaries. Candles burned everywhere. A heavy wooden chair had been placed in the center of the room like a throne of depravity.
Eleanor was brought in naked except for her jeweled court necklace.
They tied her wrists behind her back and forced her to kneel.
“Tonight,” the Duke announced, “we will see if this pious little cunt has truly become addicted to seed.”
One after another, they stepped forward.
The first man came on her forehead. The second across her eyes. The third directly into her open, willing mouth. She swallowed greedily now, no longer pretending to fight.
By the tenth load, she was moaning.
By the fifteenth, she was begging.
“Please… more…” she whimpered, her voice hoarse. “Give me your cum. All of it.”
The men roared with laughter and lust.
Eleanor lost count. Load after load rained down on her. Her face was unrecognizable beneath layers of thick, pearly semen. It dripped from her chin in heavy strings onto her breasts. She opened her mouth wide, tongue extended, desperately trying to catch every drop.
When the last man finished, she was a complete wreck — covered head to toe in cum, eyes glazed with shameful lust.
The Duke stepped forward and fed her the final load straight from his cock. She sucked him eagerly, hollowing her cheeks, moaning like a common whore.
When he pulled out, she looked up at him with cum-drenched eyes and whispered the words that sealed her fate:
“I… I need it. I’m addicted to cum, my lord. Please don’t stop.”
From that night forward, Lady Eleanor Ashford lived a double life.
By day, she was the perfect, pious lady-in-waiting — modest, graceful, devout.
By night, she became the Duke’s eager cum-slut.
She began sneaking to the guards’ quarters. She would drop to her knees in the filthy straw and beg rough soldiers to paint her face. She learned to take three cocks in her mouth at once, desperate for more seed. She started drinking their cum from tankards like fine wine.
Sometimes the Duke would arrange special “ceremonies” where thirty or more men would gather just to cover her. Eleanor would thank each one on her knees, licking their spent cocks clean, begging them to give her another load.
Her husband, when he finally returned from the King’s business, found a changed woman. Eleanor no longer resisted his rare advances. Instead, she would suck him dry, then secretly slip away to find stronger, thicker loads from the Duke’s men.
She was ruined. Completely, happily addicted.
And she would never be clean again.
