I have been reading a lot of high fantasy and the idea for this came to me fully formed. I wrote it in a daze.
She does not understand this – why she has thrown herself down before him, when she is Queen and this is her city and with a single clap of her hands, her royal guard would appear and drag him to the dungeons below. How dare he stand before her with that arrogant smirk upon his face, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture bent, his body not even paying her the proper respects as she finds her own body falling to her knees, bones crunching underneath the hard, cool marble of the throne room.
She wants to stop her hands rising to her hair – she knows what they’re doing, they’re taking off her prized jewels that keep it as her servants made it for her – held upright in a detailed and lavish bun. Yes, she wants to halt the movement of her hands, to freeze them in place, but she can’t. They move on their own accord.
Her eyes are locked onto him! Him in his dusty leather pants and grey jerkin with a torn hole on his left forearm. Him! With what..what looks to be blood smeared across his chest. Bounty hunters and their arrogance!
She feels her eyes draw down into a squint, feels her brow dig down into her skin. There’s a pulse behind her left eye. She gets this when she’s angry – and right now she’s not just angry, she is furious.
Stop yourself, she screams internally, as she watches her hands reach up to the straps of her glittering, glowing ivory dress. You’ve sat at the high seat and commanded armies. You’ve stood in the chambers of arrogant men and voiced opposition. You can do this.
To him she thought with venom, take your prize, your beloved payment and depart this place. I am your Queen, this is my throne room. This is my realm! You have no power here.
Yet no words are coming out of her trembling, dry lips. No sound escapes out of her as her traitorous hands seize a handful of her dress, the rough fabric scratching at her sweaty palms as they pull down her dress, letting loose her full, round breasts.
She feels the warm shame sizzle across her arms, tingling her armpits and flushing her cheeks. She doesn’t like her breasts – a thought she has never admitted to anyone but one maid – Becca. She doesn’t like their shape, triangular almost, with nipples too small and pink.
Realisation like icy water hits her. Why should she care? Curse the man! What does nakedness and body shapes and…and age matter? What was it Janar taught her? To not concern herself with trivialities?
She freezes, dress hanging down around her waist. Her back arches. She can feel her spine straighten. It’s like her body is coming out of a restful sleep, muscles starting to creak and move like some sort of steam powered engine slowly gathering speed.
Why, this man is old enough to be my papa. His face certainly looks it, creasing like well worn leather as smirks. Or is that a snarl? She can’t tell.
No, she can’t tell why she’s in this state. She can’t tell why she’s stuffing the dress further down her waist, revealing more of her pale body.
She knows what’s coming, she can feel the burning heat between her legs reach boiling point as she wrestles the dress down her thighs. Her mind flashes to a moment in time, sitting on the balcony of her bedroom alone and under the moonlight. She had excused her guards, who exchanged looks and faltered at first but left after she had to raise her voice. She wanted to be there, naked under the moonlight. She wanted to feel the cool autumn breeze on her skin. She wanted that breeze to skim upwards under thigh and tickle her bare slit.
More than this, she wanted to be touched. It had been so long since she had a man’s hands on her, rough and coarse and callused. Some part of her knew she could have anyone. She is queen, beautiful, she had that power – but such power was not proper. Was it? For her? She knows what they call her – the young queen. It’s not right. She’s not a child any longer. Her last name day crowned her twenty-two.
She can feel her heart a-fluttering in her chest as she kneels before his man. Where was her power now – now that she was rising to her feet to slip out of her dress further?
And why wasn’t the damned fool helping her? Why was he watching her?
Oh how she could feel his eyes on her bosom, which only made her breathing quicken. She feels untamed and wrong and…and…shamed.
Yet she cannot stop herself from resuming kneeling before him. She cannot stop her hands from yanking the last of her jewels, inherited jewels, free.
Her hair, the lightest blonde, comes tumbling down, tickles her bare back and making her fidget on the spot, her knees shuffling against the marble like some sort of dance.
Her eyes look beyond the bounty hunter to her guards – six of them, their swords unsheathed and ready to taste blood. When had she told them to freeze? Why had she told them to freeze? For payment?
Her hair tickles her left bosom, hardening her nipple. It causes her to fidget further.
The man before her – the dirty bounty hunter – is untying his leather pants. She watches him let loose the knot, which comes unlaced and falls away. His cock spills – no, springs – out of his pants, hard and seemingly aching. It seems to quiver on the spot.
“Your Majesty!” Cries the Captain of The Guard. He takes a step forward, hand on his sword. She has to hold up her hand to stop him, though she’s not sure why. She’s not in charge. It’s all a dream she is watching as a ghost in the throne room. She’s standing off to the side of the Captain of the guard…but she’s also on her knees before the bounty hunter, who takes one step forward. Then another. His hand glides down to clasp around the shaft of his cock. He gripes it tightly and still looks her right in the eye.
His other hand lashes out at her throat.
She feels the grip, doesn’t know whether to feel scared or excited. There’s a place between the two that she wants to reach. A resting place on the bridge between.
It hits her then.
She understands.
His payment.
She goes to open her mouth, to tell him to hurry up about it, wanting to fling the dagger, the barb, at him.
To remind him she is still his queen and in control.
But she chokes on her words.
Can’t get out what’s running in her mind.
She’s looking up at him now, can feel herself frowning.
All the while, he smirks.
She feels her mouth open, her tongue extending outwards.
Not of her own accord.
She takes him into her mouth, her mind racing to categorise the taste of him as he slides further in.
The tip of him hits her cheek, rests its length along her tongue, but he’s guiding it, not her.
It slides further, her tongue wraps around what it can. Taste explodes in her mouth.
She can feel him rocking into her, his cock slipping to the back of her throat and then back between her lips.
She’s torn between catching her breath and wanting more. She doesn’t know why.
“Your MAJESTY!”
She can hear the outrage. She can feel the outrage. Not just from her captain but within herself. She feels alive and dirty all at once.
She does not understand.