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Warrior and the Queen
The vanquished warrior gazes the length of the vast throne room, to see the figure of his Captor, the one who has defeated him and turned his army to ruinous rout. Had they come face to face on the battlefield, then he would surely have triumphed, but now he is in chains and his physical strength is useless.
With pride he walks the length of the hall, the vast columns of stone supporting the vaulted roof pass by on either side. Shackled as his is, he cannot maintain a strong gait but must shuffle his way, yet he holds his head high and his gaze unwavering. He has petitioned for the audience to acknowledge his better, yet still holds himself equal to the Ruler before him.
As he draws near, the Ruler's hands lift up and the head shakes and hair cascades loose, for this Ruler is no man, but a powerful Queen. Awe fills the heart of this beaten soldier, for she is beauty and she is power, as no King could ever have been. It was the warrior's intention to stand proudly before his Captor and to acknowledge a better man by offering him his sword, but now he is taken over by a different instinct.
He drops to his knees before her, and he bows his head to the vision of splendour before him. Diminutive compared to his great frame, yet she seemed to tower over him even before his act.
"My Queen, my Ruler, my Mistress," he says, "You are beyond compare in battle and in spirit. I beg you to command me as you will!"
In the silence that follows, he can feel her eyes travelling over his body, and seeming to peer into his soul. He can sense wisdom and gentleness as well as power and strength in that gaze, though he never once lifts his eyes from the floor before him. She is considering in quiet confidence how to take this offer.
With cool, deliberate movements, she unlocks the chains but commands that he not move a muscle once she has done so. The chains slide to the floor, but the warrior does not move. Now, were he still of that mind, he could destroy her power forever, but he has begged her to command him, and she has. His honour alone would be enough to keep him there, but she has stirred some deeper power over him.
She slips her feet from her delicate black slippers.
"Kiss my feet," she whispers, and the warrior bends his head to the floor and does as she commands, his hands placed softly and powerlessly to either side. The warrior's lips brush gently over the roof of her foot, stroking her tender skin. He feels her hands placed on the back of his head as he kisses her, claiming him as hers. From strong equal to obedient slave, he has travelled in such a short space of time...
The Queen lifts his head. She unbinds the sash from her robe, and wraps it tightly around the warrior's wrists, tying them together in front of him, and then she rises, gesturing that he do likewise. He towers over her but it is she who dominates the scene. She leads him away to her private chamber behind the throne.
Here, with careful fingers she unwraps the warrior's wrists and peels away his clothes. She commands him to stand still as she does so, and she removes each item piece by piece. The warrior is nervous, for this is beyond his experience, he has never permitted anyone save the nurses who tended his wounds, to treat him thus. Now this Queen has brought him to her chamber is discarding their clothes to the floor. She sheds her dress, and has only a dark robe to cover her body, but she leaves it open.
Perhaps it is this vision that finally stirs the warrior, for he has taken many women on his campaigns, but none of them were like this. She is deft and prepared for his move, and she sidesteps him. She places herself behind him and rests her hands upon his shoulders, allowing their dead weight to rest upon his frame. There is such power in the gesture that he sinks to his knees without a word.
"In this chamber, it is I who does the taking," she tells him, never lifting her voice above a murmur, and he nods his understanding.
She discards even her robe, and then stands naked before him.
"Use your mouth to pleasure me, warrior-slave," she orders, and so he does, his lips and his tongue placed over her cunny and he uses them as she directs, being guided to bring her to arousal. He can taste the unfamiliar flavouring of her juices as his efforts start to achieve success. The scent stirs his manhood, and as he has never felt before, he is ashamed of it. The Queen's arousal is intense now and she is breathing deeply and passionately. Suddenly, she puts her hands on his chest and pushes him onto his back. His erect cock is suddenly all on display and he wants to move to hide it, but he cannot for the Queen descends upon him and slides him deep within her. Her hands coil around his wrists and, though he could pull free, he cannot bring himself to try. She is in control, riding up and down on him as she brings herself to wonderful climax.
She lifts herself off the still erect shaft of her new slave, and stands over him. She looks at the unfulfilled arousal and takes pity on him. Softly, gently, she strokes her hand around and over the manhood, with delicate skill she stimulates him until his body rewards her. She catches the seed in her hand and proffers it to the warrior's mouth, and commands that he lick her hands clean.
The warrior does so, tasting his own semen and her triumph over him all in that moment.
"Mistress," he breathes, "I am yours."
She rests her hand, slick with his saliva, on his hair, and says with a smile in her voice, "I know."
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