Chapter 10: Threefold Oath
The taste of Amberley Ashwick was a ghost on her tongue for three days. Teresa scrubbed her mouth with mint until her gums burned, but the memory persisted—not as regret, but as a live wire of humiliation and arousal. The princess’s words echoed louder. The real game. Every glance at Isolde Von Hess in the council chamber now felt like watching a master cartographer draw a map in invisible ink. Teresa saw the calculations behind her smiles, the strategic pauses in her speech. The southern mines. A diversion for a marriage treaty. It was all so brutally clever it made Teresa’s teeth ache.
She found Prince Callum Nicholson in the training yard, effortlessly disarming a sparring partner with a flick of his wrist. He was all easy grace and brighter-than-necessary laughter, a charming diversion she’d enjoyed for weeks. Today, the charm felt like a coat she needed to shrug off.
“Bored of watching peasants swing steel?” he called, tossing his practice sword to a squire. His green eyes crinkled. “Or finally ready for a proper lesson?”
“I need a distraction,” she said, her voice flat. “Not a lesson.”
He read her tone, the forced calm, and his playful demeanor softened into something more attentive. He fell into step beside her as she walked aimlessly through the courtyard arch. “Distraction I can provide. What’s the flavor? Wine, wagering, wanton misbehavior?”
“Start with the latter.”
He led her not to his chambers, but to the old armory, a cavernous hall lined with the ghostly shells of obsolete armor. “Quieter here,” he said, his voice dropping. “Fewer eyes.” At the rear, behind a massive tapestry depicting some forgotten battle, was a narrow alcove used for storing polishing supplies. A single candle on a shelf illuminated dust motes and the faint gleam of weaponry.
“Wanton misbehavior, Your Highness, usually requires a hint of wantonness,” he teased, leaning against a heavy oak table. “You look like you’re preparing for an execution.”
“Maybe I am.” She moved to him, her fingers going to the laces of his trousers. No ceremony, no flirtation. Her mind was a storm of Isolde’s plotting and Amberley’s contempt. She needed to drown it in sensation.
Callum’s breath caught as her hands freed him. His cock was already half-hard, thickening rapidly in her cool grip. “Fuck, Teresa,” he muttered, his head thumping back against a cabinet.
She dropped to her knees on the hard stone floor. The coarse wool of her gown was no cushion. She didn’t care. She took him into her mouth in one smooth, deep stroke, her lips stretching around his girth. She heard his choked gasp above her, his hands tangling in her hair. She worked him with a furious, desperate rhythm, bobbing her head, using her tongue hard against the sensitive vein underneath. Salty pre-cum seeped onto her tongue. She swallowed, taking him deeper, until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base.
This was control. This was a thing she could command. The slap of her lips, the wet, obscene sounds in the quiet alcove, the way his thighs began to tremble. She lost herself in the mechanical act, in the weight and heat of him filling her throat.
The tapestry rustled.
Teresa froze, Callum still buried in her mouth. A figure stood in the gap, framed by dim light from the armory hall. Nate, the Captain of the Home Guard, her father’s most steadfast and quietly judgmental protector. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. The sword clattered to the stone floor, the metallic echo absurdly loud.
For a long second, no one moved. Teresa slowly withdrew, letting Callum’s slick cock pop from her lips with an audible, wet sound. She kept her eyes locked on Nate’s. A fierce, reckless defiance surged through her, burning away the shame. This was her cage. These were her bars.
She licked a stray bead of pre-cum from her lower lip. Her voice was hoarse but clear. “Join us or leave.”
Nate stood rigid. His gaze flicked from her face, to Callum’s swollen cock glistening in the candlelight, back to her eyes. She saw the conflict warring in him—duty, shock, a raw, hungry arousal that finally broke through his disciplined exterior. His breath came in short, sharp gusts. With shaking hands, he fumbled with his belt buckle.
The leather hissed. His trousers fell. His cock sprang free, thick and ruddy and already fully erect, a prominent vein running its length. It was heavier than Callum’s, a brutal, practical weight.
“Gods,” Callum groaned, his fingers tightening in Teresa’s hair. He looked from Nate’s cock to Teresa’s flushed face. A wicked, complicit grin spread across his features. “Fuck her tight cunt while I use her mouth. Let’s see if we can finally split this princess in two.”
Nate moved forward as if in a trance. His big hands, calloused from sword and rein, gripped her hips, hauling her up from her knees. He turned her roughly to face the table, bending her over its scarred surface. The cool wood bit into her cheek. He yanked her gown and underskirts up to her waist, exposing her completely. The air in the alcove was cold on her skin.
She heard him spit into his palm, a crude, wet sound. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock was pressing against her entrance. She was slick from arousal and the degradation of being watched, but he was huge. He pushed in with a single, relentless thrust.
Teresa cried out, the sound muffled by the table. He filled her impossibly, a stretching, burning fullness that stole her breath. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a deep, pounding rhythm immediately, each drive of his hips slamming her into the table edge.
“Mouth,” Callum demanded, stepping in front of her.
She opened for him, and he fed his cock back between her lips. Now she was filled at both ends, impaled, a conduit for their use. Callum fucked her face with shallow, urgent thrusts, his tip hitting the back of her throat. Nate’s relentless pace behind her picked up, the slap of his balls against her skin a steady, brutal counterpoint to the wet gagging sounds she made.
“Tighter than a fist,” Nate grunted, his voice ragged with a tension she’d never heard in him. His hands dug bruises into her hips. “Taking it like a common barracks whore.”
The filth from his mouth, so at odds with his usual solemnity, made her clench around him. He groaned.
“She likes that,” Callum laughed, a breathless, giddy sound. He pulled his cock from her lips, a string of saliva bridging the gap. “Look at her. Royal highness, split open on a guardsman’s dick. You gonna come, Nate? Gonna fill your future queen’s cunt?”
Nate’s rhythm fractured. His thrusts became erratic, animalistic. A guttural roar tore from him as he buried himself to the hilt and pulsed inside her, his release hot and flooding. He held there, shuddering, for three long seconds before pulling out, his spend already dripping down her thighs.
Before she could even gasp, Callum was pulling her upright, turning her. He sat on the edge of the table, pulling her astride him. She was sore, stretched, used. He guided his cock into her wet, messy slit. The feeling was different—full again, but with the slick evidence of Nate inside her.
“Ride me,” Callum ordered, his hands gripping her ass. “Finish it.”
She moved, her body aching, every muscle protesting. The friction was almost too much, oversensitive and raw. She bounced on him, her breasts swaying free from her crumpled gown. Callum’s eyes were locked on the mingled fluids glistening on his cock as he slid in and out of her.
“Fuck, that’s depraved,” he whispered, mesmerized. He bucked up to meet her, his own control shattering. “Come on, Teresa. Come on this cock that’s fucking another man’s load deeper into you.”
His words, the blatant, filthy reality of it, crashed over her. Her climax was less a wave than a detonation, a silent, seizing tremor that locked her muscles and blurred her vision. She felt him erupt inside her a moment later, a second hot rush joining the first.
They collapsed together in a heap of limbs and fine fabric on the grimy floor, the candle guttering. Nate was already buckling his trousers, his face a closed door. He retrieved his sword, sheathing it with a definitive click. He looked at Teresa, a complex turmoil in his eyes—disgust, awe, a shattered loyalty.
Without a word, he vanished through the tapestry.
Callum let out a long, shaky breath. “Well. That was a distraction.”
Teresa lay still, feeling the cool seep of their combined releases between her legs. The storm in her mind was gone, replaced by a hollow, ringing quiet. She had wanted to feel something, anything other than the puppeteer’s strings. Now she felt owned, hollowed out, and strangely, powerfully clear.
She sat up, pulling her gown together with hands that only trembled slightly. On the table, beside the melted candle, lay a single, unguarded dagger. Its hilt was wrapped in black silk. Isolde’s colors. A message, or a taunt, left from some earlier visit.
Teresa picked it up. The metal was cold. The hollow quiet inside her began to solidify into a new, cold shape. Amberley was right. This was just fucking the bars. It changed nothing.
The real game awaited. And as she tucked the dagger into her belt, the sticky chill on her thighs a visceral reminder of her own desperation, she decided it was time to stop being a piece on the board.
She stood, ignoring the ache. “Get up, Callum. I need to see the treasurer’s ledgers.”
He stared at her, confusion replacing his sated languor. “What? Now?”
“Now.” Her voice was stone. The Princess Teresa Laveille, heir to a kingdom, was gone. In her place was someone else, someone who had been broken open on a dusty table and was now piecing herself together with sharper edges. “The distraction is over.”