[WINNER] The King of Pyke [Dubious-Consent]

Written by /u/cno22

He came for her after darkness fell over the sea outside her window. As he always did. Days had long ago faded together, though by the length of her hair as it fell over her shoulder, it could have been no less than 3 months. 3 months since she had been traded so that the **** could stop. The eldest daughter of the Starks, in exchange for peace on the waters. The King of Pyke kept his word, but he also made sure he got his fair share out of the deal.

Tall, pale, beautiful beyond measure, with flowing auburn hair the likes would never be seen on the Iron Islands, Sansa was in many ways the ultimate saltwife. And with her feminine hips and perky breasts, she might even produce a worthwhile child or two some day. Not that Euron would actually marry the girl. No. That would give her a level of legitimacy, and he preferred to let the eldest daughter of Ned Stark remain tainted, and no better than a common bedwarmer.

Nothing more than the whine of the metal hinges announced his arrival, as he **** the heavy oaken door open, before slamming it shut once again. Sansa had long ago grown used to the nightly routine, and waited for him upon the large wooden table near the center of the room. Fire crackled in the stone hearth behind her, illuminating her enticing figure in the otherwise dark prison he left her. The plain grey gown left little to the imagination, and did little to protect her from the icy chill of the night, but then again, both had been by design.

Neither she nor he said a word. For several long moments, nothing but the snap of the fire filled the silence of the stone tower. Finally, he moved, taking a grand, powerful stride in her direction, his hands reaching to loosen his swordbelt from his hip. He turned slightly, heading for the large oaken chair positioned before the fireplace, and Sansa moved to follow; he seemed to enjoy keeping her on her knees before his secondary throne more than anything else. But to her surprise, he stopped her with a sudden turn of his head and an impatient bark.

“No, girl. Not tonight. You stay. Bend over the table.”

He impatiently tossed his belt onto the chair before lazily fiddling with the rest of his leather and mail, clearly eager to free himself of the confining attire. But where he was clad in protection, Sansa was every bit as ****. She moved slowly to follow his instructions, turning her back towards him nervously, and placing her hands along the edge of the aged wood delicately. Even 3 months later, she could not completely shake her lessons on how to act like a lady. And the small grey cloth that she had would offer her no modesty.

Each inch she slinked down, bringing her chest closer to the table, the more the tiny robe hiked up, exposing more and more of her round, pale rear until the tips of her small, pink nipples brushed against the wood, and her cheeks were completely revealed. He wasted neither time nor words with her. Her flesh shivered as his boots thumped against the floor, signalling his approach. A rough knee **** against her thigh was all the instruction it took to wiggle her legs apart, and without even a moment’s hesitation, he **** himself inside her.

Her weak moan of exertion and surprise was overshadowed by his pleased grunt. She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as he slammed into her again and again. He grabbed a hold of her hips, forcing her backwards to meet his violent, barbaric thrusts, which quickly found a uneven, chaotic rhythm. Her small, wordless gasps of pleasure were silenced by the meaty slap of flesh against flesh, as he drove his thighs against her soft, pale cheeks again and again, until they began to turn as red as the red atop her head.

He took no care of her pleasure, nor of taking his time. So it was not long before his breaths turned into curses, his fingers curling into fists, and his **** thrusts to grow even more frantic until he finally **** himself inside her as deep as he could, and flooded her insides with his hot, virile seed. A few weak thrusts and a quiet curse were all he offered before pulling himself free, spilling a rope of white down from her lips and onto the floor.

Once again, he said nothing as he lazily tightened himself up, taking slow, lumbering steps over to his chair before the fireplace. For a time, Sansa did not move. She had learned by now he liked to admire his work, and watch her womanhood drip with his essence. Slowly, she raised her head, and craned around to look at him. As always, he was staring back at her. Admiring his prize. They each held their gaze for several long moments, before he finally smirked and gestured to the floor in front of him. “That’s not all, Princess Stark. We’ve got a long night ahead. Now come and kneel.” She slowly pushed herself back off the table, and carefully strode across the room, pausing before him in his massive oaken throne. Without a word, she delicately moved down to her knees and began her work. The ultimate saltwife.