Fit for a Queen
The queen sits—lounges—on her throne as she listens to her political advisers and adventurers update her on the happenings across the empire. Her hair has been piled high on her head, revealing a long neck partially obscured by her dark frill. Ethically collected furs drape across the ornamental seat and add asymmetrical flair to her opulent gown. Jewels and bolts of colorful fabrics from across the world decorate her dress, a reminder of her social status…and, underneath it, simply her own extravagant tastes.
You are intimately familiar with her tastes.
The guards open the door completely and announce your name. She straightens in her seat. Her inferiors turn to look at you. You incline your head in acknowledgement before making your way to the throne.
With reverence you drop to one knee before her and bow your head. “Your Majesty.”
After a beat she announces, “I will hear these updates in private. You are dismissed. I will send word when we are to reconvene.”
The subordinates file out the doors, which the guards close behind them, leaving you and the queen alone in the throne room.
As her royally commissioned pirate, you bring her victories, tales, and gifts. Especially the last one. Her favorites, the rubies and onyx threaded with gold, make her glow. You warm from the inside; you’d chased them down specifically for her.
The tales of sea and sailors and swords widen her eyes, part her lips in a smile, then a surprised O. She especially loves the camaraderie you describe in your crew. You don’t mention that your shipmates have threatened to jump overboard if you go starry-eyed over her for more than 10 seconds at a time. One already made good on that promise. You had to fish him out of the water yourself.
Halfway through your explanations of the battles, though, she fiddles with the hidden clasp on one of her draped furs until it slides off her shoulder and onto the arm of the throne. Your breath catches in your throat.
Maybe it was scratchy, you think, but she drops another cape. And another. Until she’s down to her gown itself, and you try desperately to focus on piracy. Scurvy. Seasickness. Hard tack. Badly attached peg legs.
“You may approach the throne,” she says, and there’s nothing you may about it.
You approach. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“You have, once again, served your country well. You can be proud. And now you—” Her regal tone cuts off in a snort, then dissolves into giggles. “—you can bring the other booty for inspection.”
Heating from the inside out, you take a step closer to her. “Now? Here?”
She cocks her head, the smile lingering. “If you want.”
Of course I want. You’ve wanted for months. Months alone at sea, no one beside you as you fall sleep, no one to talk with and hold in the early morning hours as you awaken. Months of your hand as your only pleasure, of imagining it’s hers and aching with need even after the orgasms. You can already feel yourself melting with desire for her.
She waits for your yea or nay. It has been this way from the start: equals behind closed doors, consensual, no power play.
Your breath comes faster. “Yes, y…” Rather than waste time with words, you cross the remaining space and crush your lips to hers, out of practice but fervent. Her hands tangle in your hair and pull you even closer. Yes.
