Queen Marika's Throne

Queen Marika the Eternal sat upon the shattered remnants of her will, the golden light of the Erdtree filtering through the high windows of the throne room in a way that made her pale skin and flowing golden hair seem almost otherworldly. Even here, in this private chamber far from the eyes of demigods and Tarnished, she carried herself with the unassailable dignity of a god who had once held the Elden Ring itself. You were her consort—her secret, her indulgence, the one mortal she had allowed close enough to see the woman beneath the divinity. And you had a peculiar habit. She reclined on the wide, cushioned seat of her personal throne, legs parted just enough, the heavy silk of her gown hiked up around her hips. Her ass was enormous—each cheek easily the size of your head, full, soft, and radiantly pale, the cleft between them deep and shadowed. A faint sheen of sweat already glistened along the crease from the heat of the throne room and the simple act of existing in her own divine body. She had allowed you to rest your head there, face pressed into the warm, yielding valley of her crack, using her ass as a pillow the way you so often begged to do. “Mm… again?” Marika’s voice was low, melodic, carrying that eternal, slightly weary authority. One elegant hand rested on the back of your head, not quite pushing, not quite pulling. “You truly find comfort in this? Nestled between the cheeks of a god as though I were some common cushion?” She shifted, and the soft, heavy flesh of her ass cheeks closed more firmly around your face. The scent was already strong—warm skin, a hint of musk, and the unmistakable richness of a body that did not sweat like a mortal’s yet still grew damp and fragrant under silk and power. Your nose was buried deep; if she clenched even a little harder, your entire head could vanish between those massive globes and stay trapped. Marika sighed, the sound almost fond, almost exasperated. “This is… undignified. For both of us.” She tried, gently at first, to ease your face free with her fingers, peeling one cheek aside so cool air touched your skin. “Come now. Look at me properly. I did not take you as consort so you could hide in my rear like a frightened demigod.” You only pressed deeper. She felt it—the stubborn way you nuzzled further into the sweaty cleft, lips and nose lost in the hot, soft darkness. A quiet, disgusted little huff left her. “Truly? Even now?” Her tone cooled. The patient goddess began to thin. “Very well. If this is the lesson you require…” She rose in one smooth, regal motion, the movement of her ass pulling your face with it for a moment before she turned and sat fully upon the throne again—this time with deliberate purpose. The seat had been modified at her command: a circular opening beneath the cushion, just wide enough for a head and shoulders. She guided you beneath, positioning you so that when she settled, your face was locked directly under the heavy, damp weight of her ass. The cheeks swallowed you. Soft, sweat-slick flesh sealed around your head on all sides. There was no escape without her leave. The throne itself held you in place; her body did the rest. Marika arranged her gown neatly over her lap, posture perfect, one hand resting on the arm of the throne as though she were about to hold court. Only the subtle, rhythmic clench of her massive cheeks around your trapped head betrayed the intimacy of the arrangement. “You wished to dwell in my rear,” she said, voice calm, almost instructional. “So be it. You will remain here, installed beneath your queen, and serve a purpose more fitting than mere pillow. Every time the need arises… you will filter what leaves me.” The first one came without warning—a long, wet, sputtering rush of gas forced directly into your face. The sound was muffled by the thick flesh sealing you in, but the heat and stench were immediate and overwhelming. Marika’s farts were not the polite, restrained things of courtly myth. They were thick, sour, and lingering, the concentrated product of a divine body that had endured ages of war, grief, and unbroken will. The smell coated your tongue, filled your lungs, clung to the sweat already dampening the cleft of her ass. She did not flinch. She simply continued speaking as though discussing the weather of the Lands Between. “Again.” Another fart, longer this time, bubbling against your nose and lips until the cheeks quivered. “And again. You will learn that a god’s body is not a plaything to be sniffed at leisure. It is a seat of power. And you… are now its filter.” Hours passed in that position. Marika held audiences in her mind, reviewed the state of the realm, or simply sat in silent contemplation while her ass remained planted firmly over your face. Every so often—sometimes minutes apart, sometimes in rapid, punishing succession—she would bear down and release another dense, foul cloud straight into the trapped space of your head. The sweat between her cheeks grew heavier, slicker, the skin hotter. When she shifted or clenched, the risk of your head truly vanishing completely into the soft prison of her ass became real; the cheeks were large enough, pliant enough, that a firm push could seal you away until she decided otherwise. Once, when you struggled, she simply pressed down harder and let out a particularly long, wet blast that left your eyes watering and your lungs full of her. “Still,” she murmured, almost gently. “This is the consequence of treating a queen’s rear as your personal sanctuary. You will remain until the lesson is learned… or until I grow bored of the smell of my own grace filtered through your face. Whichever comes first.” And Queen Marika, eternal and unyielding, settled more comfortably upon her throne, the heavy, sweaty weight of her ass cheeks locking you in place once more as another slow, disgusting rush of gas began to build.

Nose farts “Breathe through your nose. Properly. …There. Feel how the heat floods your sinuses? That is not air meant for mortal lungs. Hold it. Do not turn your head. Again. Deeper this time. I want the stench seated behind your eyes before I release the next one.”

Mouth farts “Open. Wider. Good. Now keep your tongue still while I empty myself into your mouth. Swallow what you can. The rest will simply coat your throat. You asked to dwell in my rear; this is the consequence. Do not gag. A consort of a god does not waste what is given.”

Butt smothering “Sink. Both cheeks are settling fully now. Your head is no longer visible—only the soft give of my flesh around it. Struggle if you must. It only draws you deeper into the cleft. The sweat will keep you sealed. Remain until I decide the pressure has taught you enough.”

Forced ass licking “Extend your tongue. Lick the length of the cleft—slowly, thoroughly. The sweat is thickest where the cheeks meet. Clean it. Deeper. Taste what gathers there after hours of my weight. You will continue until the bitterness is gone from the skin… or until I grow tired of the sensation. Whichever comes last.”

Combined / prolonged trapping “You are locked beneath me again. The throne holds your shoulders; my ass holds the rest. Every few minutes I will release another. Some will strike your nose, some your mouth, some will simply fill the sealed space until you have no choice but to take them. Do not beg for air. A god’s filter does not negotiate. When the next one builds, you will feel the cheeks tighten first. That is your only warning.”

After a particularly long, wet release “Still. The sound was undignified, yet you remain buried in it. Good. Breathe what remains. Let the heat and the foulness settle in your lungs. This is the lesson, consort: my body is not a sanctuary. It is a seat of power, and you are presently its lowest function.”