Page 18 of The Fae Queen's Captive
Maynard’s words have distracted me from the work of his fingers, and I’m surprised at the brush of cool air on my breasts as the bodice slips down to my waist. Idalia is kissing my neck now, and I’m being guided to sit on the edge of the platform, and then Maynard is kissing my neck too, while the fairies behind us move to greet me, more kisses trailing along the bare skin between my shoulder blades, hands languorous on my hips.
Idalia’s fingers find my nipples—erect and sensitive—and roll them cleverly between her fingertips. Heat sparks at her touch, those sparks tracing down like falling fireworks to my cunt, and it’s only then that I lift my head to see if the queen is watching.
She is.
She is watching.
She seems as remote as ever on her throne—there’s still no reading those black eyes or that elegant mouth—but there is something alert in her posture that wasn’t there before. As if her motionlessness now is intentional rather than habitual.
Her eyes are on mine as Maynard and Idalia together ruck up my skirt. I’m grateful that I’m wearing my usual black boy shorts today—comfortable but cute—and that I chose this dress, which pools around my waist in pretty, filmy layers as the two fairies push my skirt higher and higher. Some people have princess fantasies—I have fantasies about getting railed in a princess dress. To each their own, I guess.
“What a picture,” Maynard says, stroking over the colorful tattoo on my thigh. I look down to see his fingertip skate over the inked folds of the Belle Dame’s red dress. “And here you’ve been pretending to be ignorant of all to do with our kind.”
“The tales she hears are hardly real knowledge, Maynard,” Idalia says. Her fingers join his over the tattoo. “Whatever germs of truth may lie dormant inside them.”
“I got it years ago,” I say, although I’m not sure why it matters. Nothing matters except the long-fingered caresses on my thigh, nothing matters except the queen watching me from her throne.
“I’m curious,” Maynard says, “when you look at this picture, who do you wish to be? The merciless woman, vain and beautiful? Or her bewitched lover, doomed as he may be?”
I am sitting with my breasts bared and my skirt up to my waist, and still I flush. I fear the answer will reveal more about myself than I’d like.
“No need to answer,” Idalia says, a smile curling her silver-painted lips. “The queen already knows.”
“But there is plenty she does not know yet,” Maynard says, and then he pushes my thighs apart.
Someone’s touch skates over the soft fabric of my underwear, light as a feather, and I catch my breath. I want to rock my hips into the sensation, but the fairies behind me hold my hips in place as they kiss my back and neck.
My hair is swept out of the way so they can kiss more of me; Maynard teases a stiff nipple where it juts through the hair tossed over my shoulder.
“What lovely little shivers you make,” Idalia says. “And we haven’t even gotten to my favorite part.”
“What’s your—” But I don’t need to finish the question. She and Maynard are already tugging my panties down. It’s over before I can worry about how awkward it is, how inelegant. How the queen probably doesn’t have to wriggle out of a cotton-Lycra blend in order to be touched.
“This,” Idalia says as I’m bared completely to view and Maynard’s large hands keep my thighs prised apart. “This is my favorite part.”
No one is touching my cunt, but I’m already quivering like they are, I’m already trying to arch and seek. The hands on my hips won’t let me, though, and the more I try to squirm, the more Maynard pulls his hands away from my breasts.
“No, no,” he scolds. “This isn’t for you.”
I’m being stripped down and held open, kissed along my back and neck and shoulders—how can it not befor me?
But then I look up again and see the queen on her throne, her eyes dark and inscrutable, and I realize Maynard is right. This isn’t for me.
I marched over to prove something to her, to show her I knew better than she did, but I feel like I’m the one being shown instead.
Not that it makes any material difference: her doing this to me, having her courtiers spread me like a butterfly and expose me to her gaze, makes it even hotter.
Maynard is the first to touch my pussy, and the difference betweencarefulandteasingis evident in the wickedness of his expression as he sands his fingertips over my curls. I try to arch again, but it’s futile. I am held in place, forced to endure the torture of his slow exploration.
Idalia bends her head and pulls the furled tip of my breast between her lips. The shock of her hot, wet mouth around such a sensitive part of me makes me gasp. Maynard responds by running a finger up the center of me—and I knew I was aroused, but evenI’msurprised to feel how wet I am when he touches me.
Up on the dais, the queen doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to react at all, but neither can I tear my gaze away from hers as Maynard finds the swollen part of me and teases it with his middle finger. As I writhe against the many hands holding me in place, I am also held fast by the queen’s attention, by the way she watches me like I’m the only person in the teeming hall.
It’s only when her stare drops from my face down to my breasts and then to my cunt that I feel released from her hold, but I still don’t feel entirely free of her. In fact, maybe I’m more in her thrall than before, watching her as she watches me, as she observes Maynard and Idalia expertly coaxing me into breathless pleasure.
It’s been months since I’ve been fucked by someone—even longer since I’ve beenproperlyfucked—and it’s an embarrassingly short journey from my panties coming off to everything pulling tight and hot below my navel, a shimmering knot tied around my clit that is ready to unravel at the slightest touch.
The fairies behind us—the ones kissing and nuzzling me—slide their hands past my hips to my thighs, which they now hold open for Maynard and the queen. And with me pinned and peeled like fruit, Maynard finally rubs my clit the way I need, with hard circles and presses. Between his touch and Idalia’s wicked mouth toying with my nipple, I’m done for, but with the queen watching, I’mextragone. I want her to see me come. I want her to make me come. I want her to heap more of everything on top me—pain, humiliation, sheer obscenity—and I want her to see how I can take it, how I was born to drink it all down, swallow every last drop.
