by Jade London
Another groan, this one long and deep and tortured, and then he comes.
His thick cock spurts a stream of viscous white cum onto me, drenching my face. I close my eyes and continue to stroke him, feel him come again, feel the hot wet cum splash against my eyes and my nose and my lips and my cheek in thick ropes.
“Taste it, my lady,” he grunts.
I lick my lips, and then I feel his cock at my lips and I part for him, taste his flesh, and he groans as I suck hard, swallow the last spurts of his cum and stroke him for more, sucking harder, letting him go and then licking his cock and stroking him. I continue to lick and suck around his plump glans and swallow the droplets until he yanks free with a grunt.
“Look at you, my lady,” he murmurs. “Covered in my seed. Your beautiful face is white with it. Would you care to see?”
I feel his fingers wipe at my eyes, and then his fingers touch my lips and I lick his seed from his fingers. Thick wet strands of his cum drip down my face, down my chin. He fetches a hand mirror and shows me myself:
Blond hair, golden as the summer sun, with droplets of his seed in it. My face, even and symmetrical, beautiful, my eyes blue and bright and wild with need, with pleasure, with pride. His cum covers my face, smeared and flowing in white rivulets all over my flesh. It’s all over me, sliding down my throat, sluicing down between the valley of my tits. I lick my lips and taste it.
“Beautiful.” His voice is low, a deep rumbling growl. “Next time, if such fortune be mine that I get another moment with you…I shall paint your breasts with my seed, and then your ass. And lastly, I will fill you with it. I will fill your sweet little cunt so full with my seed that it will spill out of you for days thereafter. Each step you take, you will feel me sliding down your thighs, and you will know the feel of me on every inch of your perfect flesh.”
He moves away, snatches his tunic from the floor and uses a sleeve to wipe clean my eyes, another sleeve to clean to my forehead, the tail to wipe my cheeks and chin, and the front for my breasts, and the back for my throat. When I am clean, his once pristine tunic is sticky and matted with his own seed.
He steps into his trousers, ties the laces, and opens the door, but pauses in the opening. “I’ll have servants draw you a bath after you’ve slept. It appears I have a message to send my erstwhile friend, your King Charles.”
“He’s not my King,” I hear myself say. “You are.” I stand naked, and cross the room to stand behind him. “What is your message?”
“I’m challenging him to a duel,” he says. “Winner takes all. You, and both kingdoms.”
“Will you win?”
“I’ve always been the better swordsman,” he says, turning to look at me. “And now…I have the best motivation there is.” His grin is quick and feral. “You.”
…
When Conrad has gone, I am left alone and naked in his chambers. I climb into his bed, tug the covers up to my chin, and drowse.
When I blink awake, it feels as if but a moment has passed, yet sunlight gleams golden through the doorway of the balcony, signaling early dawn.
The guards are beyond the still-ajar door, but they are as immovable as statues. Within a few minutes, however, two women appear on the other side of the guards’ crossed spears.
“Milady? His Majesty has requested that we bathe you. Will you please accompany us?” one of them says.
They don’t attempt to enter the King’s chambers, and the guards give no impression that they even see the servant women. The two maids are of an age, younger than I by some years, and they are dressed alike in floor-length scarlet dresses with white aprons.
I gesture at the sliced open remnants of my gown. “I’m afraid I have nothing to cover myself with.”
“A fresh gown awaits you in the bathing chamber, milady,” she says. “And the chamber isn’t far. Perhaps if you merely held the edges together? We are the only ones afoot at this early hour, save the guards, of course.”
I slip my arms into the sleeves and hold the edges of the gown together at the breast and groin, as the servant suggested, which provides at least a modicum of decency. As I approach the door, the guards snap their massive axes aside, even though neither so much as twitched to look at me, and my bare feet made no sound on the flagstones. I follow the women along the far edge of the throne room, the ziggurat mammoth in the distance. The two servant women walk a step ahead of me and so massive is the chamber that we walk for several hundred paces before we reach a tapestry hung on the wall, depicting yet another battle, the king the centerpiece, victorious astride a white charger. One of the women pushes aside an edge of the tapestry to reveal a hidden archway, a servant’s entrance, it seems. I step through into a low, narrow hallway, which curves away into a descending staircase, this one steep and sharply curved, bringing us quickly to the level beneath the throne room.
We emerge in an echoing, expansive kitchen. One entire wall is occupied by a fireplace of a scale that defies belief, the fire in it roaring and crackling and billowing a blasting wall of heat. Stone pipes carry the heat in various directions, up through the ceiling, down into the floor, along the walls to the ovens in the kitchen itself…too many directions for me to follow. Dozens of loaves of bread bake in one oven, a large bird rotates on a spit over a smaller open flame, chefs in spattered white smocks scurry in every direction, carrying out their work with silent efficiency. Despite the bustle of the kitchen, no one is speaking. It’s as if they each know their exact job and require no input from anyone else to do it.
The women lead me across the kitchen to yet another arched doorway and another staircase, this one ascending. It is a small staircase, leading perhaps ten feet upward to a chamber above the kitchen, yet below the throne room…or perhaps adjacent to it. The tower is too massive and the path I’ve been led along to get here has crossed too many gargantuan chambers to keep track of the layout.
I emerge behind the servants in a room which I would consider small in scale compared to the rest of what I’ve seen. Perhaps fifty paces across in each direction, a pool of hot water is wreathed in steam, obscuring all but the impression of thin, fluted columns and rippling water. This is more accurately termed a bathing pool rather than tub, I would think. The doorway opens to a small semi-circular area with a marbled floor, which gives away immediately to steps leading down into the water. It is a low-ceilinged room, the roof a dome painted to resemble a starry night, just barely visible through the roiling steam.
“I’ll take that ruined gown from you, milady,” one of them says.
I shrug out of the dress, and touch a toe to the water; it is piping hot, on the edge of being too hot, just barely tolerable. I shiver, my skin pebbling, despite the nearly oppressive humidity of the room. I descend the steps gingerly, the water rising at each step from ankle to knee to thigh, and then it’s at my breasts, and then I duck under the surface. When I breach upwards, the servant women are there with half a dozen different glass jars. I sit on the steps, the water at my belly, and they stand behind me, barefoot, dresses hiked to keep the hems dry, and ply me with scented oils, lathering my hair, scooping steaming water in an amphora to douse me and rinse my hair, then lather it again. They gesture for me to stand so they can scrub every inch of my skin.
When I am clean, they beckon me out of the water, which I do reluctantly; the water is deliciously hot, relaxing, enveloping. There are, I realize now, two doorways side-by-side, one leading back down to the kitchen, the other through which the servants lead me. A short, low, narrow hall, and then we arrive in another chamber, this one tiny, the dome of the roof curved down to become the walls.
The tiny room is stiflingly hot, dry as a desert. The heat blasts against my skin, drying me within moments. The servant women unfold thick soft towels and rub me all over with them, ruffling my hair ever so gently. And then, dry now from head to toe, they lead me through a doorway opposite the entrance and into a dressing room. This room feels homey, comfortable, cozy, even.
&n
bsp; The room is of a modest scale, with a balcony overlooking the exterior of the castle: there is a wide moat spanned by a drawbridge, mountain peaks jagged in the distance, and a dizzyingly deep chasm beyond the edge of the moat. Without that drawbridge, there is simply no way into the castle, I realize, the chasm is so massive. I see a river in the distance rushing white to fall over the cliffside, the thin white ribbon of the waterfall providing a sense of scale, turning what seemed at first glance to be a narrow gap between castle and cliff into a void so mind-bogglingly enormous I cannot even fathom how this castle came to exist in the first place.
I turn away from the balcony and find the women awaiting me. There is a wardrobe, a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and a low-backed chair. Nothing else, except the doorway to the sauna and another arched doorway, this one with a closed door.
One of the women opens the wardrobe and removes one of many gowns, this one a deep, vivid crimson. She helps me into it, tugging it down, allowing the hem to unfurl and skirl around my feet, brushing the floor as I stand. The bodice is stiff, and they have to tuck my breasts into it, stuffing and prodding the mounds of creamy flesh into place until my nipples are hidden but the largest portion of my breasts are bare. The other busies herself with my hair, braiding it into several strands and then braiding those together, and then twisting that into a knot on the top of my head.
When I am dressed and coiffed, I am led once more out of the room, through yet another long, low, narrow hallway, up a flight of stairs, out from behind a tapestry wall hanging and into the throne room.
A guard sees me immediately. “He’s waiting for you, girl. Go on up.” No milady from him, it seems. Perhaps the guards are exempt from the requirements of courtly respect, or perhaps I don’t rate it. I don’t know. Nor do I care.
I see him. Sitting on that throne once more, naked blade across his knees. I ascend the ziggurat slowly, eyes fixed on Conrad.
When I reach his level, I see that he has not dressed, has not changed, has not bathed. He is wearing the breeches he slid on last night, bare chested, hair loose around his broad muscular shoulders. His eyes are alert, if he is somehow beyond the need for sleep.
“My lovely Hannah,” he murmurs. “Scrubbed and perfumed and looking lovelier than ever.”
“Conrad.” I have no idea what else to say.
“I sent a messenger on the fastest horse in the kingdom, within minutes of leaving your side.” He runs a fingertip along the flat of his sword. “I expect him to return soon with Charles’s answer.”
“What then?”
His eyes do not leave my cleavage. “I expect him to answer my challenge. I have offered him the choice of location for the duel, and the terms.” A smirk. “I’ll kill him as I should have long ago, and then, my dear…then…you’ll truly be mine.”
“And until then?” I hear the shiver of anticipation in my own voice.
His gaze finally slides up to mine. “I should lock you in the tower. To protect your…virtue.”
I laugh. “Really, Conrad? Virtue? I think that was surrendered last night, when you buried your face between my thighs.” I slink a little closer, knees knocking with need, belly tensed, core aching with memory. “Or perhaps I relinquished my virtue when I allowed you to paint my face white with your cum.”
He shifts on his throne, his fist tightening around the hilt of his sword. “A momentary loss of self-control. You are a prisoner of war, Hannah, not one of my concubines.”
“So…that loss of control. It won’t happen again, is what you’re implying.”
“It shouldn’t. I am not Charles. I will not take by force a woman who doesn’t wish to be mine.”
I reach for the laces of his breeches, loosening them until his erection springs free. “Does this feel as if you’re forcing me?” I ask, as I wrap my hand around his thick, hot, smooth cock.
He groans. “You’re going to have to stop before I lose control again.”
I laugh under my breath as I stroke him. “Lose control again?” I have him bucking under my hand. “Conrad…if what you’re displaying is control, then I must admit to wondering what loss of control looks like.”
He snarls. “You tempt me, Hannah. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“What if what I want what’s wrong?” I ask.
He grabs my wrist to halt my touch. “You know how many nights I’ve sat on this throne, picturing you? All the ways I’d take you, including here, on this very spot? I’ve dreamed of it. I’ve fantasized about it. And now you tempt me with the reality.”
“I’m not tempting,” I whisper in his ear, squeezing his cock, “I’m inviting.”
He takes one deep drafting breath and holds it for a long moment, staring into my eyes, jaw grinding. And then his hand loosens, releasing my wrist so I can resume stroking him. Only, instead of continuing to caress his length, I just squeeze again. Release, and squeeze. Release…and squeeze. Until he’s groaning and his hips thrust.
And then his sword is clanging to the floor and he’s pushing me away as he stands up. His breeches are open, his cock standing straight and hard between the laces. He pants, his belly tightening, his gloriously hard dick swaying in front of me. God, I want it. I want him. I need him inside me. His tongue last night wasn’t enough. His tongue only served to heat my arousal to a wildfire, stirring it into madness. Now I’ve touched him, felt his hardness under my hand, and I need that inside me. I’m desperate for it, suddenly.
Not suddenly, though.
From the moment I stood before him on this ziggurat, I wanted him.
I wanted his touch.
I wanted him to fill me.
I stand still, waiting. There’s nothing he could do that I would refuse.
Here, now, on this throne, guards all around…I would take him.
He hesitates another moment, hands clenching into fists and releasing.
And then he strikes, swift as a serpent. His hands seize my waist and he jerks me forward, yanking me clear off the ground to slam against his hard body. His mouth seizes mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. He bites my lower lip and sucks it into his mouth, then he leans down to nip at my throat, and then he buries his face between my tits and groans as he inhales.
He spins me around, and the arm of the chair meets my belly. I’m bent over the side, and he’s behind me. His hands smooth up my back, over the dress. Up to my bare shoulders. He leans against me, and I can feel the steel rod of his erection against my buttocks, pressing between the globes. He digs his fingers into the bodice, clutching my breasts, and then tugs them free of the confines. Tweaks my nipples, pinching them until I gasp.
Then he’s gathering crimson fabric into his fists, and the hem rises slowly. Ankles, knees, thighs…it is almost like descending into the hot water, except more and more of me is being bared to him. There is nothing beneath the dress, only my bare flesh.
He’s groaning as he exposes me.
“This,” he murmurs. “I’ve dreamed of this.” He pushes the dress up over my back, and my ass is bare for him, my legs parted, my core aching. “You, Hannah, bent over my throne.”
I can only moan, and it is all the assent I can give as his hands caress my ass cheeks, spreading them apart. I feel his cock nudging against my entrance. I writhe, lift up on my toes and sink back down.
“Eager for it, aren’t you, Hannah?”
“Yes, I want it.”
“Yes, what?” he growls, smacking my ass with his palm, making me jump and gasp.
“Yes, sire,” I whimper.
“You want it?” he grinds against my slit, the plump head of his cock soft and thick, spreading my cunt open as he teases my entrance. “You want me inside you, Hannah?”
“Fuck, yes,” I growl, not even pretending to hide my desperation. “Please, please.”
He sinks into me, then, and we both groan in bliss. It is utter rapture, the feel of him filling me, the way his cock stretches me apart, fills me. I hiss in delight, push back into him, take him deeper, ey
es closed, focusing on the feel of him inside me. The way my cunt burns as I stretch to take his thickness, the sweet slide of him going deeper, deeper. His hands on my ass, spreading me apart so he can fuck deeper yet. God, so good.
“Hannah, you feel…so much better than I imagined.” His voice is tight, low, a snarling murmur.
His breath leaves him as he sinks fully into me, his hips meeting my ass.
“More,” I breathe. “Fuck me.”
He pulls back, and I mewl in pleasure at the delicious sensation of his huge, perfect cock sliding between the stretched, taut, sensitive lips of my pussy. He pumps a few times, spearing the head in and out of me, and I gasp at each subtle penetration.
He doesn’t fuck me.
He teases me. Toys with me.
Slow, shallow thrusts. Until I’m nearly mad with need, wild with the desperation to feel him fill me, ready to beg once more. And then, finally, when I think he’s only going to tease me, he finally slides deep, pushing into me in a single hard thrust.
“Yes, Conrad. Just like that.” I roll my hips, just to feel the slick wet slide of that gorgeously hard shaft inside me.
The scuff of a boot on marble snaps both of our attention to the steps.
“Sire…” a man appears, sweaty, exhausted looking, covered in dust, panting. “I bring word from King Charles—” He freezes then, on the top step, his eyes on my swaying tits, on his king buried hilt-deep inside my cunt, his hands on my ass, which I’m sure is red from his hand.
He doesn’t pull out of me. “And?”
I need him to move. I’m on the edge, riding the cusp of climax. All I need is a few more hard strokes, and I’ll topple screaming over the edge.
The messenger hesitates. “I…King Charles, first of his name, has received your challenge to single combat—” he falters, eyes wide, flicking over me. “He has received your challenge—I already said that. Um…I—he sends his acceptance, and his scorn. But while His Majesty King Charles accepts your challenge, he expects the prompt and safe return of his betrothed, the Lady Hannah, daughter of the former, self-styled king.” At the use of my name, the messenger’s eyes widen yet more, going from my tits to Conrad and back. “He—he says, if you—if Lady Hannah is returned forthwith, unharmed and unmolested, all will be forgiven.”
