Chapter 7: Royal Treatment
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in the warm, jasmine-scented air of Amana’s sanctuary. The room was a vision of curated opulence, all soft golds and deep reds. A large canopy bed dominated the space, its sheer curtains pulled back to reveal a nest of silk pillows and sheets. Princess Amana stood beside it, her back to him, the sheer robe already pooled at her feet.
Her body was a masterpiece of powerful, elegant lines. The muscles of her back and shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, flaring out again into strong, rounded hips. And between them, standing thick and heavy against her thighs, was her cock. It was fully erect, a proud, veined shaft that curved slightly upward, glistening at the tip with a bead of clear fluid. The golden piercings he’d seen in her ears were mirrored by a single, delicate ring through the hood of her flesh at the base of her shaft, catching the low light.
She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. Her obsidian braids cascaded down her back. “The oil, pledge.”
He crossed the room, the plush rug muffling his steps. He held out the bottle. She didn’t take it. Instead, she gestured to the bed.
“Lie down. On your back.”
Connor’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. He obeyed, the silk cool and slippery against his skin. The canopy above him seemed to swim. He watched as she picked up the bottle, pouring a generous amount of the golden oil into her palm. The scent of jasmine intensified, becoming almost dizzying.
She didn’t join him on the bed immediately. Instead, she began to slick the oil over her own cock, her long fingers moving with a practiced, possessive rhythm. She stroked herself slowly, from the root to the glistening tip, her amber eyes locked on his. The sight was mesmerizing and utterly intimidating. The soft, wet sounds of her hand working her flesh filled the quiet room.
“You look… edible,” she purred, her voice a low thrum. “All laid out like a offering. Do you know what you are for, Connor?”
He shook his head, his throat too dry to form words.
“You are relief. You are release.” She finished oiling herself, her shaft now gleaming, the ring at its base a flash of cold gold. She climbed onto the bed, moving over him with the fluid grace of a predator. She didn’t straddle his hips. Instead, she knelt over his chest, her knees pinning his shoulders to the mattress. Her thick, oil-slick cock hovered just inches from his face. The musky, intimate scent of her filled his nostrils.
“Open your mouth,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Wider.”
He complied, a helpless shudder running through him. She placed the hot, broad head of her cock against his lips. The taste was salty, complex, utterly foreign.
“Now,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Service your princess.”
She pushed forward.
The initial stretch was shocking. His jaw ached immediately as the wide crown forced its way past his teeth. He gagged, his eyes watering. Amana made a soft, chiding sound.
“Breathe through your nose, little pledge. Relax your throat. You exist for this.”
She began to move, slow, inexorable thrusts that buried her length in his mouth. The golden ring at the base of her shaft clinked softly against his front teeth with every inward push. His world narrowed to this single, suffocating reality: the taste of her, the weight of her on his chest, the overwhelming fullness in his throat. Tears tracked from the corners of his eyes into his hairline.
She fucked his face with a regal, detached precision, her thrusts deepening as his throat reluctantly opened for her. She watched his struggle with a look of deep, carnal satisfaction.
“Yes… that’s it. Take it. Take all of me.” Her breathing hitched. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the headboard above him, changing the angle. The new position drove her even deeper, and Connor’s body jerked, a primal reflex to reject the invasion. She held him down, her thighs like vises around his head.
“You have a talented throat,” she murmured, her rhythm becoming less controlled, more urgent. “I can feel you constricting around me. So tight. Are you going to swallow my come, pledge? Are you going to drink every last drop from my cock?”
He couldn’t answer. He could only endure, his own arousal a distant, confused signal beneath the barrage of sensation. He focused on the clink of gold on enamel, a bizarre metronome for his submission.
Her movements became jerky, frantic. A low, guttural groan ripped from her throat. “I’m going to fill your pretty mouth. Now.”
She slammed home, hilting herself in his throat, and held there. A hot, pulsing flood erupted from her, coating the back of his tongue, filling his mouth with a bitter, salty warmth. He swallowed convulsively, again and again, until there was nothing left.
She stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, her body trembling with the aftershocks. Then, with a soft, satisfied sigh, she pulled out. She looked down at him, his lips swollen, his face streaked with tears and saliva. She traced his bottom lip with her thumb.
“Adequate,” she whispered.
She shifted off his chest, lying beside him on the silk. The scent of sex and jasmine was overwhelming. Connor lay gasping, his throat raw, his mind a blank slate of exhaustion.
Connor lay gasping, his throat raw, his mind a blank slate of exhaustion. Amana’s even breathing beside him signaled a deep, satisfied sleep, her regal form already sinking into the silk. The scent of jasmine and sex was a thick blanket in the room, but another thought, stubborn and clear, pushed through his fatigue. Nia. Her claimed stiffness, her frustrated acceptance of defeat. She was waiting, her need a tangible echo in the house.
He slid from the bed, his legs unsteady. The cool air was a shock on his oil-slicked skin. He found his clothes in a heap by the door and pulled them on silently, the soft cotton a rough contrast to Amana’s silks. The hallway was dark and quiet, the grand staircase a cavern of shadows. He moved on instinct, drawn to the door he’d seen Nia enter.
He knocked softly, the sound absorbed by the heavy wood. For a moment, there was only silence. Then the door opened, revealing Nia silhouetted against the dim light of a single lamp. She was still in her shorts, her powerful torso gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. She looked down at him, her expression unreadable.
“The princess is finished with you?” she asked, her voice a low rumble.
“She’s asleep,” Connor said, his own voice hoarse. “You said you had a stiffness. I thought… I could help with that. Now.”
Nia’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. A long, slow moment stretched between them. Then, something in her severe expression softened by a fraction. A genuine, surprised appreciation flickered in her dark gaze. “You came,” she stated, as if confirming a rare fact.
She stepped back, granting him entry. Her room was spartan, a warrior’s quarters. A large, reinforced bed frame dominated the space, its mattress bare of fancy linens. The air smelled of clean sweat and leather. She closed the door and turned to face him, her arms crossed over her magnificent chest.
“The journey was long. The muscles in my back and shoulders are like stone.” She paused, her eyes tracing the faint tear-tracks he hadn’t fully wiped away. “But your throat is already wounded.”
“It’s fine,” he said, the words a rasp. “I want to.”
She considered him, then gave a single, slow nod. She turned her back to him, presenting a breathtaking map of knotted muscle and powerful sinew. “Then start there.”
He approached her, the difference in their scale making him feel like a child. He placed his hands on her lower back, his fingers spanning only a fraction of the width. Her skin was hot, almost feverish. He pressed his thumbs into the dense tissue along her spine, and she emitted a low, gratifying groan.
“Harder,” she commanded.
He leaned his weight into it, working the rigid cords of muscle. He felt them begin to yield under his persistent pressure. She guided him with low, murmured instructions. “Higher. To the left. Yes, there. Do not stop.”
He worked until his own arms ached, his focus absolute. Her groans became deeper, more frequent, a soundtrack of releasing tension. After a long while, she turned around. Her face was softer, the lines of pain eased. Her gaze was different now; the analytical hunger was still there, but it was tempered with something else—respect, perhaps.
“Now,” she said, her voice thick. “The other stiffness.”
Her hand went to the waistband of her shorts, pushing them down her powerful hips. Her cock sprang free, thick and impressively full, but the motion was devoid of Amana’s theatricality. It was a simple, factual presentation of need. She sat on the edge of the bed, the frame groaning under her weight, and looked at him.
“You do not have to take it all,” she said, a surprising concession. “Just what you can.”
He knelt on the floor between her spread thighs. The musky, intimate scent of her was strong, but clean. He leaned forward, his sore jaw protesting, and took the broad head into his mouth. He expected force, a repetition of his earlier ordeal.
It didn’t come.
Nia let out a shuddering sigh, her hands coming to rest lightly on the sides of his head. Her thumbs stroked his temples. “Easy,” she murmured. “Just like that.”
He relaxed, letting her guide him not with thrusts, but with gentle pressure. She was incredibly large, but she let him set the pace. He focused on his breathing, on the heat and weight of her on his tongue. Slowly, carefully, he took more of her, his throat opening incrementally.
“You are doing well,” she breathed, her voice a vibration he could feel through his skull. Her composure was fraying. “So good for me.”
Encouraged, he pushed his limits, relaxing his gag reflex until his nose was buried in the crisp hair at her base. He had deep-throated her entirely. A sharp, guttural cry escaped her, a sound of pure, shocked release. Her hips gave a single, involuntary jerk before she stilled them, her hands cradling his head with incredible care.
“Fuck… Connor…” she gasped. Her body tensed, and a hot, bitter flood poured down his throat. He swallowed steadily, taking all she gave him, his own body thrumming with a strange sense of accomplishment.
When she was spent, she gently pulled him off. She didn’t push him away. Instead, she pulled him up onto the bed with her, her strength making the motion effortless. She shifted, wrapping her massive arms around him, pulling his back against her front. He was engulfed by her, a small boat secured in a warm, powerful harbor.
“Thank you,” she whispered into his hair, her voice already slurred with sleep. “For coming tonight.”
Her breathing deepened, becoming slow and regular. The heavy arm draped over him relaxed completely, its weight a comforting anchor. In minutes, she was asleep, her warm breath ghosting across his neck. Held in the silent darkness of her room, Connor felt a peace he hadn’t known was possible.