Mother of Dragons Mother of Monsters

Darkness stuck its heavy black press to every corner. You rose and dressed in the quiet. Whisper of cloth on flesh. Every noise felt like treason as you pulled on silk and stockings and a cloak. Lacing slippers.

You moved with the flimsy adroitness of a shadow past your husbands door. The strength of air-splitting snores coming from within giving you easy mind and passage.

You’d no doubt he’d tired himself out. Sweat slicked, and reeking of port.

You’d seen the brazen scullery maid with dark hair and slim hips, hurry along to his chambers earlier in quick steps. A salacious grin on her mouth. She was plain and easy. That seemed to be what he liked.

Maybe the fact that she could hold that mantel, a vestige of pride of being welcomed to his bed, over you, some grand lady, was the real draw. Mockery.

Your reliable maid, Saria, told you that woman was all boastful smirk and shining teeth with it in the mornings. Fancies herself tall with it.

You don’t know what her hurry was for. He rutted and humped like a boar and spills his seed too soon. Cared naught for his partners pleasure. You wish her well with him.

That, and the frankly average size of his cock, which you’d never found to be particularly pleasing, she was also welcome too.

Greater pleasures swelled for attention in your mind. You’d been aching for days. Empty and unfulfilled.

At first you ignored it. When the fire burned low and that slithering snake of an ache flared between your hipbones; you ignored it. Turned over and tried to let sleep claim you. Fingers twisted in the sheets. Thighs sticky.

You tried distraction. You went into the city and spent your way through a very weighty purse on fripperies.

A whole clutch of new ribbons. More pearl rings. Pendants and silver jewellery. A whole tray of honey cakes. Sweet candied plums from Dorne. Three new bottles of expensive scent from Lys, that smelled like nectar and heaven. An armful of silk dresses in colours of the sea. Jade like dune grasses. Teal like the sky on a good day. Silvery blue that reminded you of the cunning curl of waves hit by sun.

That empty void within you grew as cavernous as a dragons maw; you were feeding it the wrong things. That’s why it wasn’t sated.

You cannot deny yourself any longer. The hunger grew to be too much. You realise what you were craving;

Lyonel was right. You would be back.

You tread down the courtyard and out the servants door via the kitchens. All is dead and dark and you think it terribly ironic you won’t be missed til the lilac and rose smudged dawn. When the house rises once again.

When the servants wake and bustle to chores when dark still kisses the edge of the morning. Fires will be swept. Candles refreshed. Shutters opened. The days bread merely wet dough in the oven. Ready to begin anew. No one will know of your perfidy.

You plunge headlong into this filthy, reeking night again, with a full purse on your hip.

You head for the pleasure house. This time, you don’t give yourself leave to hesitate at the door. You are made of Velaryon tides; you sweep through all bluster and silence.

Your slippers meet the fine cool tiles of the entryway. Polished to a mirror shine. Ivory and obsidian in fine diamond cut. The familiar smoky perfume slipping over you. The same sultry strings of music coming from somewhere you can’t place. Some silk draping or a clever panel you’ve no doubt. Exotic ripe fruit torn open to be devoured. Tonight it is pomegranates. Ripped and bashed open. Their insides glisten like gems bathing in sunlight.

The wine pours freely. People revel in the usual debauchery in the open. Wet smacking flesh. Moans travelling along skin.

Your wedding ring gets tucked once more into your pocket. Now that’s becoming a habit.

You swallow. Edging into the room. Curious glances from under heavy, kohl dark lashes flick your way. Your hood is dropped back by a steady hand.

A serving girl, naked save for some sort of gauzy fabric that hangs in arches over her hips, breezes your way. That slinky thin cloth seems to be a uniform to mark all the whores hereabouts.

She’s carrying a heavy silver tray of wine. Holding it out to you with a smile. Her hair is dark, blood red like a priestess. It reaches in waves down her back. Eyes pale. Jewels of ruby rest fat and glistening between her small breasts.

She offers you the tray. Wordless. Her eyes sting at you with their intensity. Smile curling. You nod. Wetting your lips. Taking a cup. She’s moving on after you utter a weak thanks.

You watch as a male patron reached out and slapped her ass to make it jiggle as she nears him. She doesn’t even flinch or spill her offerings. Used to it, you suppose.

You find a decent enough place to hide. Behind a huge black and gold patterned urn. Crammed in a small window alcove of a bench on silk cushions. You let the brothel in all its splendour carve on around you. You slink to the side of it all and stick to hiding, like flotsam caught on low tide.

A heavy boulder settles on your belly. You begin to feel regret closing in. Fetid trap of its jaw crushing your spirit. Wine feels spiky on your empty stomach. Like holes burnt in parchment. But the warmth it floods down your throat is welcome. It’s nice and quite strong. You lean to it. Pretty soon your goblet is near empty.

Unfortunately, your hiding spot gets a rude uncovering.

A man brazenly sits himself down next to you. Cushions slumping silk under his weight. He groans like the seat is a great comfort on weary bones.

You shrink down. You’d hoped to pass unnoticed until you could catch the eye of the mistress and ask for someone. Maybe Duncan again. Maybe his husband Lyonel- if either were available to accommodate you. If not, you’d slink home in disgrace.

He chuckles. Dry and throaty. “A shy one, are we?” He asks. Twisting to face you.

He stretched back and rests himself closer to your side. You’re sure he thinks himself handsome. There is certainly a good essence of that to his face. Blue eyes. Golden hair swept back. A square jaw. A clipped beard. He’s garbed in a crimson doublet, open wide at the neck. Plain breeches and shining boots. Fine jewellery shouts wealth from his fingers and neck.

“You’ve got the wrong idea.” You remark. Standing your goblet down. Ready to bolt for the hallway just to your left. The one that led to the door. Mayhaps this was a grave mistake-

He eases into your space with . Shoulder brushing yours. You smell the perfume of him. It sours your stomach to twist. A strong wash of greasy scent. All gold lustre and overpowering wealth. Enough to choke on.

“It’s alright. You need not speak overmuch.” He assures with great confidence. “I can draw other noises from that pretty mouth.”

His eyes find yours. It’s unsettling how dark they look. Cenote heavy.

“I’m not-“

He turns fully into your side. Crowding you in. Fingers resting easy on your leg. Cutting over you. Your tongue clearly fell insignificant to him.

“You must be new here. You’re spooking like a skittish mare. I usually have to pay double for that lovely little game.” His hand slides under the velvet of your cloak and up your silk clad thigh.

“I’m not a whore.” Your eyes burn at him. Holding his gaze. Hoping he reads your ire. Pearl drops hanging on your earlobes shake. Jaw grit into a hard packed line, that hurt your teeth.

He grins all the more. “That’s more like it.” His hand slides up and greedily cups the side of your thigh. Fingers attempting to sink into the fat of your ass. He moans in pleasure under his breath when he grabs you.

“Your hair, splendid. White as pearl. Maybe you’re a dragonseed, huh? Fire and blood and a nice fierce hot pussy between your legs. Can’t wait to sink into it.”

“Stop- please. Stop, Ser.”

“Squirm and fuss. Underneath it all you can’t wait to be spread under me. Pretty one. I know it.”

“Fuck you.” You bite.

You push both hands at his chest and shove. A grunt coming from your mouth when he falls back to the alcove seat. Unleashing yourself from his grip. Yanking your cloak away.

You bolt for the door. He splutters in offence. His hand snatches out, bands a fierce grip on your upper arm before you can run. Even through all your soft fabric, you know the touch may leave a mark.

He catches you. Pushes you up against the nearest doorway. Keeps you there with his tall body.

“You think I won’t chase you down. Cunt. I’ve paid a royal sum for this. I should thrash you bloody with my belt for even daring to disobey.”

You try and pry his hand off. He only tightens his hold. “Get off-“ you cry.

Trying to shake him loose. Gripping his hand to try and loosen his grip. To no avail. Angry hot tears spike your eyes.

You wonder how the room can carve on uncaring, with this filth pawing at you. Hurting you. You twist. You try and slip out his grasp, but the net has truly closed.

Before you can comprehend. A ringed, bronze-skinned fist, inundated with rings, clenches the man by the neck of his red silk.

A strong kick to the back of his legs from behind gets him crippled, falling down to his knees. Landing hard enough to shatter bone. He sputters mightily at the indignity.

He keeps him there. Stood to his back. A small, wickedly-sharp dagger now pressed to one side of the man’s neck. He gulps and the tip pricks his delicate skin. Nearly puncturing.

Your saviour came in a surprising, storming form; Lyonel.

You breathe hard, shrunk in the doorway. Huddled back. Watching the man towering over this entitled prick.

“What is the fucking meaning of this. Unhand me. Now.” He screeches. Lyonel smiles down. All grin and devastation.

He smirks wider. Takes great pleasure in dragging the steel in a slow, uncontested line along his throat. Whitens the reddening skin. Testing.

“What have we here...” He addresses the man with cool venom. Hand fisting tighter in his clothes. Cutting off his wriggling. Choking him with a twist of the fabric.

He looks a picture for a man who thought himself invincible; holds his hands aloft showing he’s not armed. Weak.

“I don’t think I appreciate your tone, Lormer.” Lyonel says to him. Taking great sweet joy in toying with his knife. Tracing a pulsing angered vein in the scum’s neck.

“What did he do to you, pet-“ He slowly raises his eyes across to you. You calm your breathing enough to answer. Struck dumb. His grip still burned your arm.

“He grabbed me. I told him I wasn’t-“ You swallow. Words coming spilling out in panic. Shaking your head.

“I was just- I was talking to her…” Lormer tries to excuse. Choking on his own deference.

A filthy lying coward with a quaking tongue when the steel came out. Lyonel buoys a dark brow. Looking amused and fully confident the man was lying.

“Last I checked, you entitled shit, a man doesn’t need to get his hands involved to talk to a lady.” Lyonel assures.

He brings his gaze slowly up to you. Their depths stun you. Muscles strain in his bulging arms. He’s dressed much the same as last time. Jewels and gold encrust his arms and neck, his nipples, his ears. Banded on his upper arms.

He’s shirtless. Draped in pearls. Eyes lined in kohl. Hair hanging low curls over his eyes. Instead of gauzy cloth slung to his hips, tonight, he wears leather breeches that melt perfectly into folded-black, pirate style boots up his calves.

His chest pelted with raven and silver hair, arms covered too wirh a dark dusting of it. Oil glimmers off him, shining past his nipple rings. On his biceps and neck. He glistens in the light and scent seeps off tan skin; Orange wood, cloves and cinnamon. He smelled like a Pentos market stall. All spice and exotic flare.

He’s just as devastating to recount as you remember.

“I thought she was a whore.” He defends. Voice shrill. Rising in pitch.

Lyonel shares an easy look with you that gets your belly hot. Flustered. Like he’s struck a flint to spark.

“You were mistaken. Get the fuck off out of here. Consider your coin tonight as payment in recompense for offending Cerelle.”

“You can’t-“ He froths. Spitting indignation.

“I can. I have.” Lyonel snaps. Dismissing.

He pitched a sharp short whistle. Two heavy set guards on the door are called in by it.

“Take this one away. Bar him any future entry. Blacken both eyes. Maybe break a rib. And when he begs all pitiful and says ‘please’ you are to kick him to a pulp until he pisses blood. Understood?” He orders.

They smile their ready assent. He is dragged away on his knees. Hissing insult and ruin as he goes. Boots slipped along the floor hard enough to scratch the fine things.

People barely bat an eye. The music doesn’t even falter. Whores roll their eyes. Go back to their smiles, their lust, their wine.

Cerelle, the pleasure house Mistress, watches from the side of the room. Happily sat with her long legs crossed, sipping her wine. Robe a wicked apple green tonight. Complimenting the emeralds circling her neck like a gorget. She likes to lay naked under a silk robe amongst her boys and girls. She rests in the corner, cunning as a spider. Watching her web. Maybe later she’ll have a lover. She hasn’t decided who yet.

She watches the scene unfold with icy indifference. Good riddance. No man, lord or prince, could afford to offend her.

She has half this city all sewn up in her palm. From dock workers, to lordings, to princes; she has the master of whispers in her silk lined pocket. And never lets them forget it. A whore can be as deadly as a blade if used right-

When she sees Lyonel stood with you, she smiles and lets that lie. He had others interested. They’d queue up into the street for time with him. Knowing you pay well buys you her discretion. You can have her best for the night. She trusts Lyonel to give you a time that will have you crawling back on hands and knees for more.

You drag your eyes back across to where he stands. The dagger gets twirled masterfully in his hand. Slipped away to a sheath on his low slung belt. He steps forwards with careful attentiveness.

But that smile can’t be gentle. He looks distantly smug. “Come along. Darling.”

He nods his head back towards the sweeping marble stairs. He offers out a hand. Respectful. Knowing full well you may not take it for the indignity you’ve just suffered.

You blink at him. Unsure. Hands clasped to yourself like it would hold you together. You look like a cornered mouse.

“You came back for a reason, did you not…” His eyes sparkle. Tilting his head down in cheeky inflection.

That you can’t deny.

You gently place your fingers in his. He slips them up quickly to his mouth. Drawing you level. Lingers a beautiful, slow kiss on your knuckles, as his eyes find yours again. All sorts of sin and mirth lives in them.

Your body feels that deeply. Everywhere. Between your hips especially.

He tucks your hand in his elbow. Walks you through the all the sin and debauchery. Sweeps you away above stairs. Away from the mess and the room that reels with moans.

“I have a very good Highgarden wine in my room. Better than the red swill they serve down here.” He assures.

His thumb flicks a hot, smooth arc across your hand. You are swallowed up into the tempest of him. You’re alarmingly at peace with it.

The room he leads you too, is different to last time. You climb higher up in the cavernous house. The air drifts heavy with the weight of Jasmine no matter where you go. The vines that wrap around the front of the house, strangle each window with scent- it comes pouring down the stairs to greet you.

The stairs are also littered with many men and women, half dressed. Some sat. Some perch in arched doorways. Made up and all of them pretty and perfumed.

You spy a tableau of naked flesh and fucking when you peer in one room. One man enjoying two women. One at his cock, pressing it into her cheek to suck on. Another with her legs split, braces over his face. Riding his tongue.

“Care to join?” Lyonel’s mouth sneaks over and whispers across your ear. Catching your gazing at the fluidly moving curvy hips of the one sat on the man’s face.

“No. Thank you.” You fluster. Visibly. He chuckles to see it. Sweet little pet.

You hurry along after Lyonel. Coming along a landing. Up to another marble stair. Brushing last exotic plants with fern fronds that swipe at your cloak.

You pass the door you’d been shown too last time. Duncan’s door. It was shut. You have little wonder as to the nature of the happenings within. Low pitched and very keen moans break across the walls out to where you stand. Male ones-

Lyonel turns back when he notices you staring again. A grin crawls across his face. Honey slow.

“Duncan’s a little busy. Got his hands full with a little Dornish Lord. Wild as a feral cat that one. Poor dunk will have the marks to prove it by the time he’s done.” He winks.

You swallow. Keep your pace to where he waits for you. You make quick work of the stairs. He leads you into rooms that wear the same perfume as he does.

The room was as grand as Duncan’s had been. But the style differs. Duncan’s room was orderly and kept like a sultry, cosy paradise. Lyonel’s room is a messily-stacked treasure trove, a brothel room crossed with an antique collector’s lair.

Panelled dark wood walls but the amount of art and naked frescoes on covers up the walnut shade of it. Everything is slaked in russet and orange. He must wake up seeing a Dornish sun and tasting juice every time he opens his eyes. The ceiling is crammed with hanging bulges of gold patterned silk, and metal and glass lanterns in every size, shape and colour imaginable. Fetched from markets or stolen from pirate ships.

The bed takes up a whole huge archway that ends with a window. It’s covered in a patterned panel for discretion. The same walnut as the walls. Curtains of flimsy orange and ochre lay in gathered drapes over the slab of the bed. Numerous velvet and silk cushions pile at the headboard. Blankets scattered and creased. As if he’s a bird laying in a brocade nest.

The floor is soft underfoot. Fine cushioned threads of an imported patterned rug. The side table to one end is covered in plenty of flagons and exotic bottles of drink. Mounds of pears and oranges sit fat and plump in bowls. There’s oil paintings and books. A shelf from floor to ceiling covered in trinkets, some weapons, books and treasures.

There is a huge golden bath centred in a gathering of mahogany carved screens off to one side. A silk robe in gold hung over one of the screens. A mosaic end table by the bath holds luxurious bathing things.

There’s a bowl of white rose petals, another of dried lavender, and oils wait in a cluster of bottles. Shining jewel tones in the light. Cakes of honey soap sit as chunky block-squares in a golden tiered bowl. He’s every inch a decadent man.

The door closes behind you. “Shall I lock it my lady? If you’d prefer we remain undisturbed.” He seeks.

You nod.

A twist of a red taselled key in the iron lock sees you completely alone.

“May I take your cloak, darling?” He asks, stood just behind you at your shoulder. Keeping his distance seemed a wise course at the moment. After what occurred downstairs.

You unclasp the pearl. He slides the velvet from your shoulders. Gently sets it aside on an upholstered lectus, that spills over with plump cushions.

The scent of you floods across to him. One that curls his smile; sea salt and dune sage. The mineral kiss of the sea poured off your skin.

Brings to mind wave sprays and rugged tides. A blue scallop shell hiding in the sand. The quiet strength of the oceans forgotten treasures.

“I’m sorry for what you suffered down there. Lust and drink can make foul quick work of men.”

“You knew him, by name…” you utter. Slowly. Careful. You seem to chew over your words before you speak them. A woman with rank, but carrying the agony of reticence.

“Unfortunately.” He answers. Darkly.

“Drink?” You watch as he crosses to the side. Unbuckles his belt to lay his dagger down near the bottles.

“Early for liquor, but I have Highgarden wine or Tyroshi pear brandy... ladies choice.”

“Wine please.” You cross your hands and fidget with them again.

“Anyway. Yes. To answer your question. I did know his name. Low-life cunt has been coming here a while. I’ve been wanting to bar him for what he does to the girls.”

“What does he do.” Your face is a painted picture.

He sighs as he pours the wine.

“He beats them pet. and enjoys it. Mans a sick cunt. Likes the thrill of chasing down women who don’t want him. Hunts them like prey. Makes them plead. His last time here, he nearly broke Asha’s jaw. Cerelle barely tolerated his coming back.”

You swallow. He hands you a glass of wine. Gives something to still your fretting hands.

He sees you worrying at your upper arm. Fingers passing over the flesh he’d grabbed. He tilts his head.

“He did hurt you?”

You appear caught out. A fish thrashing in a net.

“No. Just…Where he grabbed me is all. It stung. Where he dug his fingers in.”

He stands down his wine. Steps a little closer. Voice shifts from gravel to gentle. Eyes locked on yours. Serious and stalwart.

“Come here. Let me see.”

His fingers fall soft on you. For a man who seemed so ferocious, boisterous even, in nature. Stromping and bursting with sound. Alive with gold and pearls and vibrant flirting. You forget, storms can deceive, and twist to calm when they need too.

You slide your gown down an inch. Your shift too. Baring it. Let him get a glimpse of the bare round of your shoulder. Skin supple red like marmalade in the crimson half light. Dress folded down your upper arm where he’d sunk his fingers around your flesh, hard enough to bite.

“Beastly. To leave marks on such a beauty.” He whispers.

Glides a curled knuckle down your shoulder. Careful not to add to your pain. He makes you shiver.

He’s stood so close. You can feel the heat beating off him. Eyes so intense you actually feel them on you. Drunk with it. And you’ve only had one tiny sip of wine.

Your breathing crashes out a little heavier. Your eyes threaten to tip back in your head when he swoops in. Presses his lips to your shoulder. Delights your skin to thrash all over with a sweet, simple kiss.

The stubble of his trimmed goatee tickles. It’s a pleasant sensation. Strikes you dumb how good his lips feel on you- you were warned people came to him and came crawling back for his mouth. You’re beginning to understand why.

You do the only thing you can. You breach the silence.

“Thank you. For getting rid of him.”

He stands back. Gazes at you with reverence. Amusement. Nods with a courtly bow of his head.

“No one in this house touches you, without your consent.” He remakes. Final. His voice is storm edged. Biting.

“I’ve been hurt before.” You tell. Eyes sinking like stones to your feet.

It was your routine. You scarce lived a day without feeling it. Shame. Pain. Frustration. They became your daily bread. Your sustenance in your miserable birdcage of a marriage.

“Duncan told me. The circumstances of what’s driven you here, to us.”

You take in his words. Not shocked. But not exactly at peace either. “He did?”

He hums. Nods. Husband gently comes over to touch your forearm. A reassurance.

You fold it in. Like the encompassing pull of a wave. “Truth is, I feel I should be sadder about my situation than I am.”

He frowns.

“I confess. Instead I find myself, rather… relieved.” You pluck the right word with care.

Lyonel looks scandalously intrigued. “Relieved?”

Heartbreak or anger he was expecting. You are calm as a millpond. Not a breath of anything like it across your face. You have the breezy countenance of someone who somehow accepted her grim role long ago.

“My husband is no great lover. He finds his pleasures with our maids. Or indiscreet noble ladies of our acquaintance. Sometimes whores, if the right set of open thighs doesn’t come across his path.”

“I came here the other night because his indiscretion is starting to turn heads. Bear small, squealing consequences…” you explain in not as many words. He nods in understanding.

“I have borne so much in silence and the thought of having to do anymore made me sick. Made me want to scream. So I-“ you waved your hand.

“I’m a woman. Sometimes I want to be touched. To be desired. To be held in something other than disregard and pity. I’m-“

“You came here for a good fuck.” he surmises. Cheeky grin.

“No better cure than cock from a man who knows what he’s about. Now that’s something far worth screaming for.” He sips his wine

Pierces a look your way with enough sultry flirt to melt skin off your bones.

You actually smile and avert your eyes. Cheeks feeling full with heat. Thumb plucking at the rim of your goblet.

“I see Duncan was right about your mouth.”

His laughter booms. Sudden and warm as sun. “I’m famed for this mouth. Pet. Drink the rest of that wine and I’ll show you why.”

Your eyes flick to the goblet in your hands. You raise it up and sip more of the heady red. The metal cold at your lips as you take a deep pull. Anticipation boils already in your stomach.

“Have a seat.” He urges.

Nods his head to the chaise spilling over with cushions just behind you. You look back and meticulously lower yourself to it. Like you were afraid of bruising the silks.

He stands his wine on the low table with all the drink. Comes slowly over without even breaking stride, and crouches before you. The same predator like intensity in the shift of his dark eyes. You feel caught.

“Might I kiss you.” He seeks.

“Yes. Lyonel.” You reply with your eyes focused on his lips. Framed so nicely by the silver and dark of his beard.

You hear the clack and swing of his pearls and jewellery as he moves. Hand coming to frame your jaw. Thumb brushing your cheek. He closed in slow. Lips moulding to yours. Hot and sweet.

Duncan had been shy about kissing you harder; Lyonel stuns you with it. Hypnotises you with the clever, easy curl of his tongue.

It intensifies. Enough to tip you back. Spine falling to unfurl against the cushions. His hands still take your neck. Both thumbs now sweeping your cheeks. Taste of wine shared on your tongues.

He kisses you breathless. Kisses you to the brink of madness. That flavour of it dances on his tongue. Like sparks from a fire and mixed with sinful decadence. Tongue slipping along your teeth like he wanted to count them all. Grazing your own as he pulls back. Softening your eyes to a dozy shade. Storm tossed sea. Cheeks full of warmth. Moulding your passion in his hands as if he were shaping soft, sun warmed clay.

His hands leave the safety of your neck. Sliding down your silk dress in a audible hush. Coming to your hips.

He urges you forward. Scuttled you right to the edge of the chaise. The look on his face and his smile spoke leagues as he positioned you. Face clever as a fox, and twice as plotting. ‘Trust me’

“Lean back. Sweeting. Close your eyes. Let me lift your skirts and help you forget everything but my name…” He thumbs across your soft lower lip.

You go for your hem. He helps you lift it up. Shift and all. Slowly revealing more and more of yourself to him. His eyes drink deeply of every new inch. Your ankles. Calves. Up to your knees. The whisper of silk becomes an endless kiss. You tuck the silk around your hips.

“Let me take it from here sweetness. My area of expertise.” He winks. He knows his way around a cunt blindfolded. Literally.

Your eyes close when he gets his hot palms on your thighs. Warm gold rings. You’re bare and wet, just under your linen shift where he’s touching. Hands and then his lips;

Hotter than his hands and honey soft.

“One thing I’m going to ask…” He hushes low as his bearded mouth gets to your knee. Grazing the soft skin. A hot kiss and whispered words. The friction is enough to make you squirm. Arching in his hold. “Do you want it slow or wild tonight?”

“I don’t know.” Is your answer.

“Then how about we go wild until we feel otherwise.” He suggests. Wickedly.

“You’re the expert.” You state.

He smugs a grin. “Suppose I am rather.”

When his tongue strikes a path down your inner thigh. Kissing the curls that covered your cunt, the biggest exhale jumps through your lungs. Bleed jerkily out of you.

He tilts you a little more. Shifts and lets your silks settle over his head as he lays his tongue to you. Curls soft against your shaking thighs. Giving you the careful option of letting there be a barrier between you until he eases you into comfort.

“Beautiful.” He mumbles into your curls before his mouth and tongue close in. Devastating. He parts your lips with a stroke of tongue, and delves in.

He begins to lap at you in earnest. Tongue uncurling to plunge deeper. Beard dripping slick and spit in no time. Your head thuds back. Mouth open. Legs widen. You let yourself completely surrender to the sensations he’s making thrash through your veins. The utter bliss wracked your body.

The slick, wet sounds pouring from under your skirts are utterly filthy. He’s a loud eater it seems. Unashamed moans and hums come sneaking from under your silks. He was licking your clit with a rhythmic, frantic intensity, his growls muffled against your thighs.

Where you shift, below your hips feels sticky. You begin to fret again.

“Lyonel.” You whimper. Voice all kinds of breathy.

He hummed with your clit half in his mouth. Pulling back to kiss around it. Smother the taste of your pussy into his beard.

“I’m staining the silks.” You fret. You could feel the hot puddle forming under your ass. The plump, red cushions surely now stained a dark maroon.

He gives a hard suck to your clit before you respond. Pulling more of your flavour into his mouth. A move that has you shivering and arching. Yelping and thrusting your hips up to his face. Like he’d let a lightning bolt loose on you.

He sloppily pulls away to answer. Hotnunder all the silks. Air restricted. Smell of your gorgeous cunt in his nose. Grinning. Cheeks and beard beading your mixed slick. “Then fucking stain them.”

He resumes his feral pace. One that gets your thighs clamping his face. Moans coming unbidden from your throat, pretty as any song.

“Ready to get that dress off yet.” He checks. Pulling back to drag a breath. He had been too busy suffocating himself on your cunt to notice or care about much else.

You shudder. The thought of fully being able to see his eyes between your hips. That dark curly head bowing as he feasted at you, suddenly seemed too good to miss out on.

You plant your feet to the floor. He flutters dripping kisses up your thighs. Beard leaving behind wet trails into your skin.

You manage to wriggle out your dress and leave it to slink to the floor. Entirely forgotten on the expensive rugs. You go the whole way and lose your shift too. Unplucking the laces and letting it bow over your back. It comes off when you pull it over your head. That too joins the dress.

You sit before him. Utterly bare. His eyes roam you for a feast. From your neck. Down your lovely shoulders. Over tits that make his mouth feel lonely. The flare of your hips. The soft push of your stomach. Thighs he wanted to be wrapped around.

“Every inch of you is a delight. Sweeting.” His fingers find your thighs again. Cupping hips. It feels like they never left. His eyes go right to your perfect cunt framed between them.

You tried to steady your breathing to speak, but the words crumbled to ash on your tongue the second he put his tongue to you again. Before was cordial; he was learning the taste. Now he was devouring it.

He spread you open with his thumbs and watched you throb. “My god. Darling. Pussy this pretty? I’m going to have to eat your heart out.” He promises.

He leans back in to lick the entire length of you for starters. Slowly. Like he was dining with the king and didn’t know what to savour first. He was memorising what sounds came from here he placed his tongue. Flat or wide or fast. If he swirled, you gasped. Sucked, you cried. If he flicked it inside you, the moan was softer.

He claimed your pussy with a sharp, possessive flick of the tongue that brought stars bashing into your eyes. Breath hot and damp as he feasted and left no inch of you unclaimed. His nose pressing your clit. His tongue scooped deep. His beard an extra level of sensation you hadn’t counted on loving. The almost painful prick of it when so much pleasure unfurled within you.

You gasp, sitting up nearly bent doubly, nails flying to ground yourself on him. Digging his scalp, curly hair bunched in fists when he plunged two fingers deep, reflecting the very continued and atill aggressive lap of his tongue to your clit.

He was determined to wring every last shed of pleasure out of your body. And when he curled those two fingers, you feel like your whole body bucks, floats and throbs. That divine place that Duncan found last time. The one that melts your eyes back into your head. Makes you gape. That flips your whole belly into dynamite sparkles.

His eyes greedily watched the roll of your tits as he feasted down below. He made a note to himself to pluck and suck at those later when he gets his cock in you. Your fingers burned their clutch in his hair but that was the part that made his eyes roll back.

His fingers sustain their brutal rhythm. A curl and little devastating flick that left your pussy sucking down tight on his hand.

You felt wild beneath him and it made his smile grow into the press of your curls where his nose was rooted, he could still smell and taste the salt of the sea. The press of his lips doubled. He kept the pace. Steady and familiar. A pattern that drew the best sorts of cries from you.

Thighs softly trembling, sweating bracket over his head. Your body began to glisten. Marmalade orange and sticky in the light like he’s poured oranges over your skin. You roll your hips. You ride your pleasure back to his ministrations.

You clenched and quivered with your head tossed back. Letting the ardent feelings swim through you. “Lyonel. Please. Gods. Lyonel.” You hummed. Mouth sticky and dry. Half delirious with his name.

His grip was tightening, possessive, dragging your hips closer onto his mouth, you dangled off the edge of the chaise with a soft cry of shock, and he keeps you teetering there.

Hips and skin sticking to his clammy hands. Warm pennies of his rings. Making you stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene glide of fingers he gave you. You’ll pulse and clench, giving and giving until your pleasure bursts soon. He can feel it. He can hear it.

He was sloppy with it- so much slick pooling beneath you and off his chin, he spies the growing patch that drooling down onto the edge of the rug. It had seen worse.

His tongue flicking now more eager, his nose pressed against your clit, and sweet gods your taste intoxicates, sea sweat and salt and woman. He was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked. The hums of it came back spit slick and wet.

“Lyonel, please, I’m-“ you warn. Your own moans cutting you off. Searing tears gather in your lashes. Sticky and plying them together all dark and dewy.

When your body locks up, he grins. White flash of teeth. Your legs lock and shake. Chest pounding. Heart thumping to hurt up against the trap of your ribs. Every feeling surrendered to the liquid hot urgency between your thighs.

Your release hits like the sea. Waves breaking on stone.

He moaned as he tasted you. Felt you cum against his tongue. The second it broke. He lapped it up. You did burst hot and soaking down his fingers. His wrist drips with it. He kisses and drank you through it. Lessening and slowing. Letting you ride the endless crush of it. Sucking gently on the throb of your clit on his tongue.

He sits back when he hears you sigh. A word on old Valyrian tripping drunk off your tongue. Legs falling open. The silks below you utterly drenched. A huge, dark wet puddle forming below your beautiful ass. Spit shines and drips in strings off your thighs.

He’s a sight to behold. Sweat glistening on the pelt of his chest hair. And over his pearls and gems. Face beading sweat, from brow to chin. His beard is filthy wet and slick. He looks dirty and utterly turned on. Eyes heavy as dark diamonds. Shimmering wickedly and red in the light.

“Gods.” You cry gently. Coming back to the room.

“Your first time cumming that hard on a tongue?” He seeks. Said devilish tongue trapped between straight teeth. He leers at you. You’re too boneless to do much but lay there and finish feeling the bliss bleed through you.

“I’ve never, cum, like that before.” You tell him. Openly.

“You flooded my mouth. Little pet.” He cackled. “Nearly made me spend in my breeches you wicked thing.”

“I’m sorr-“

He swoops down and presses two fingers to your lips right away. “Ah. That word doesn’t exist in these rooms.” He insists.

Sorry. You swallow down saying it again.

“That beautiful cunt of yours nearly had me spending like a green boy. I’ve not even had my cock in you yet.” He smirks. “Shall we see to that?”

“I’d like that.” You confirm happily. Eagerly.

His grin comes. He presses a kiss to your mouth. Shifting back to a stand to throw off his boots. Clattering messily behind him. Your taste still shining all over his face. His dark leather breeches obscenely tented where he’s pressed like a dark, heavy ridge against his thigh.

He unbuttoned his breeches theatrically slow. Used to the audience of it. The spectacle of a sordid fuck. They get shoved to his thighs. Pushed down to pool at his ankles and he kicks them away. Cock swaying as he did. The cuffs and gold on his arms and fingers winked at you as he undressed.

Your eyes stick to the trail of hair dusting his belly. It lead like an arrow point down to his groin. The flushed column of his cock as it lay against his legs. Nestled in a thatch of raven black curls. Some silvered. Prodding upwards with a slight sway to its own weight. So curved it nearly hits up to his stomach.

He was smaller than Duncan. But then, it’s hard to imagine there could be a man any bigger. Lyonel was girthy and not shy about his size. With good reason. If he was as good as his cock as he was his tongue, then he certainly knew how to use it.

“Get on your knees for me. Where you are. We’ll try something.” He instructs.

You nearly squirm out your skin where you watch him slowly tug himself where he stands. The ruddy head disappearing in his thick fingered fist. All those rings too.

You shuffle onto your knees. Feeling a low stone of guilt sink down in your stomach at the amount of dark wetness on the silks. “Forward a bit more.” He urges. Slinging himself on the settee behind you. Kneeling up on his knees. Legs behind him.

You bend low. Feeling exposed. Your breasts hang. Bared wide open to his gaze. But you can’t ignore how much you’re dripping down between your legs. It reaches your knees you’re certain.

“I know it feels filthy. My sweet. Me fucking you this way. They do call this a whores position after all. Going at it like dogs… but. Bear with me.”

You feel him shift behind you. The wiry brush of his hairy legs against the back of yours.

“Because.” You feel the silky warm glide of his cock as he slowly drapes it through the dripping wet of your lips. He’s hotter than a sun. Harder than steel.

You gasp.

He takes himself to hand. A firm squeeze to the base. One that makes a clear drop of pre-cum squeeze out of him with pleasure. Rolling to drop to the silks too. Utterly ruined them. It makes him smile to reckon the scent of you will be all over them tomorrow.

“As you’ll see-“ he breathes.

He sinks his cock into you. Pushing slow. Parting you like the old gods did to the sea.

Sinking so it’s a gentle push that never ends. Breaching you with silky, certainty. He groans. Throaty like gravel with each new inch.

His hands feel kind on your hips. He doesn’t bruise. Or thrust before you are ready. He doesn’t rut, hump and use you as an object for release like your husband had.

He tilts you. Tips you in a different new angle. Adjusts you. His hands find your sides and hold gently. Like you’re made of paper. And when he sinks again- his hips don’t stab or push. They roll-

Your cry pierces the air so loud it’s a shock. To the both of you. He smiles down at the vicious bow of your back. Greedy. There it was-

“There we go. Now I’m going to fuck that spot til you sob and gush for me again.” He says. Filthy. Drawing his hips from you. Letting you feel the first girthy, teasing inch. He was so girthy and splitting you wide it felt obscene.

“Please.” You sob. Your nails bite into the silks. He hears the grind of it. “Please, do that again-“ you beg. Head tipped back. Sweat stuck hair to the back of your neck in strings. The pearl necklace you wore, swung between your tits to whack at your sternum with each thrust.

“That’s it. Pet. Thats- fuck, that’s fucking good.” He sighs. Slapping his body to yours. You were so wet sinking into you felt like a dream. Soft and sweet as one. Drenching as the sea.

The way he moved behind you is like art. It feels like art and pleasures like sin. The span of his hands on you. The brutal burrow of his cock as it strikes you deep. Following the same successful pattern that had you writhing back into him. Mouth falling open. Soft moans being fucked out your throat.

He starts to moan. “Seven cunting gods. Sweet girl. You feel like heaven.” He grunts. Looking down to watch where you join. The slick meeting mess. The slap of his hips to your thighs. Wet-slick, slapping sounds taking up the whole room with your heaving breaths. His pelvis snapping to yours. Urgent and deep. No one had ever fucked you this deeply. You want to sob with it.

Unable to help it. Your fingers grip the edge of the carved settee. Nails no doubt digging gouges into the wood. The sheer width of him ever got easier to take. You sweat and cry his name. Every thrust sent sparks flying through your skin and belly. Your knuckles turned white where you gripped the furniture. An attempt to lessen the storm of a man that was pounding away at you.

When his hand moved to find your slippery sex, thumb toying jerking circles around your clit. You clench on him. He chuckles with it. Head thrown back. Ecstasy painted across his face. He rubbed in a way that fell in situ with the relentless pace. His fullness breaching you, doubled with the friction of his thumb at your clit made you whine. High and desperate.

His mouth aligns itself to your shoulder. Pearls and warm gems scatter across your back. He doesn’t even falter. His tongue licks a stripe up your shoulder to your ear. You can still detect the sweet girlish tang of you splashed across his mouth.

“Fucking divine. Darling. You better come back to me again and again. I could never tire of this beautiful cunt and your gorgeous cries.”

His teeth sink in your shoulder and you shatter. Grasping for him. Raised up on your knees. It’s frightening how fast it happens. It starts swirling at the base of your spine, and it takes your whole body whirling with it.

You choke on your moans. Tongue lodged in your throat. He lets out a boisterous, booming laugh when he feels you clench, pussy damn near strangling his dick. You begin to spasm around him, milking him with a desperate, squeezing heat.

"I got you," He groaned. Low and rumbling. His voice a husky ruin as he felt you clench and squirt. Slapping to the silks below in a wet rush.

He takes his time with the way he ruts his hips. That angle that made you sob and arch. He wants to bleed more out of you. Shiver yourself to utter blissful death on his cock. He knows you can. Barely holding yourself up with it. Arms shaking.

"I've got you, my delicious little sea pearl... right where you belong. Cumming and crying yourself silly on a worthy cock. That’s it.”

He watched the tension leave your shivering, trembling shoulders. The jut of the bone under skin as you break. The one big horrible tension that had been coiling in your body for weeks. It finally gave. Snapped clean through like a cleaved bowstring.

As Lyonel drove into you mercilessly from behind, his hips hitting yours with a heavy, wet smack that echoed off the walnut orange entwined walls, the world outside this one, simply ceased to exist.

He didn’t slow at the peak of your pleasure. He railed you right through it. Over to the other side. His completion loomed heavy and he delighted himself with the fact you were squirming to get away by the time he’s done. Cunt sopping to your knees. Throat hoarse. Body shivering like spent lightning.

He didn’t slow even as his own pleasure swarmed in his guts. He finally tipped over that glorious edge and came. As with everything to do with Lyonel, it was all a huge production.

A heavy cry leaving his mouth. Shuddering with a violent, muscular and furious intensity as he emptied himself to you, deep deep deep as he could get. Cock rammed hard to you. A white, sticky ring at the base. Your pleasure writ in perfect, showered warm evidence down his lap.

Hips slacking off as the thundering stopped in his head. Sighing for breath as he felt the blissful pull of heady release shake his own body.

It had been the same as it was with Duncan. You felt an odd rush of pleasure with the way Lyonel’s spend filled you. The hot rush that made you bite your lip. Taking much needed pleasure out of the guilty joy of it. You curl your nails into the settee one time. Leaving dents in the carved, elaborate dark wood. You loose them and let your hands uncurl. Arms unleashing.

Your shoulders sink low. Lyonel drags his sweaty hand - the one that has been on your clit - down the centre of your spine. Calming you. You could happily have his hands on you all night if allowed.

The only noise left the room for a long while, was the ragged, exhausted desperate gasping and gulping of air. The sign of two people who had just meshed and fucked, like they’d been caught in a war and won. Loose limbed and gilded in sweat.

When he pulls out of you. He does it with kisses spread across your shoulders. His hands lovingly cradling your ass. Dislodging from the wet, carnal mess he’d made of you. His cock came out of you dripping.

With careful hands, he manoeuvred you so you were twisted on your back. Body splayed open for him. He leaned over you. Sweaty front crushed to yours. Sweat melding bodies rubbing. He took your chin and trapped you into a kiss. Took all the breath you barely had spare.

Your hands find themselves tugging in his hair. Sharing a filthy kiss that tastes like sweat, and you. You sigh when he pulls back. Familiar with the taste of your tongue again.

“Tell me you’re not too scandalised. My little pearl.” He grins. His thumb flicks at said pearl dangling off your necklace. Possibly where he earned the nickname. Rolls it around on your neck to crash into your breasts.

“I believe I am scandalised the exact right amount. Thank you.” You breathe. Your smile splits your face. You reach out to cup his face. Bristled beard meeting your palm.

“Might I ask for one more drink of wine. Before I leave. I believe my legs won’t stop shaking for a while-“ You sigh.

He chuckles. Leans in and presses a stout kiss to your nipple that makes you gasp all girlish. Before he gets himself up, legs stretching back into life as he makes for the side.

He refills his own glass and brings it back to you. Fuck searching your own wherever you put it- he’s too impatient. You’ve shared each others bodies. You can share a goblet.

You lean back on the sofa. Covered with a sheet he brings you. Orange and guazy. Pointed gold stars patterned on the fine thread. It smell like mint and orange peel.

You almost feel a little dark crawl of morning cover your chest when he pulls on a bright saffron colour robe. Covering up that wonderful body. Gem and jewels of course still spill free down the plunging neckline. Chest hair still catching your eye. His hair is sex mussed and more wilderness than order.

When you sit up. Your whole body feels the brunt of it. Back flaring. Hips chafing. A well used ache in your cunt.

You reach for your dress. Finding the coin purse tucked up inside the pocket. Safe out the bandits hands. Your fingertips graze the velvet purse. You pull it out. You don’t even count the coin within. You just hand it across to him where he stands.

He takes the wine off you. Takes a sip from the spot exactly where your lips just were. Weights the pouch you just pressed in his hand. Tosses it in the air. Let’s it land back in his palm.

“What could I buy with the contents of this purse. My lady….” He seeks. Playful.

“A keep. A small one. Maybe a castle tower. Some horses. Many fine swords, perhaps.”

He lobs the purse back into your lap. Vollying it like a trebuchet. Coins clink into place between your thighs.

Your face is an utter bewildered picture. You look up at him. Confused. He holds the wine out to you. Your mouth hinges wide open when he explains.

“Keep it. Just promise me you’ll come back.” He assures you.

You shake your head. You protest in the strongest terms. He cups the side of your face. Bends at the waist to lean low. Warm skin and cinnamon and sex sweat fills your nose. His wicked smile and dark eyes takes the rest.

He gives you his reason with an answer that’s all sex and sin.

“Darling. This was my night off.” He winks. Chuckling. A sound so low and filthy it slithers along your spine like hot honey.

Damn the man.

What do we think will happen next? BOTH?

Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @rotseria @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer @goregal22-blog @stainlesssteelbedframe @ghostlybfgf @fayefayefay @cats-n-batss @silkaurum @mags-writes

An hour earlier, the two of you had sat side by side in a quiet nook of the library. As your focus began to wane and the text blurred before your eyes, he pulled you between his legs. His broad thighs penned you in, leaving little choice but to continue the lesson.

"Again," he said from behind you.

Before you could protest, one large hand settled at the base of your neck. A soft sigh escaped you.

His thumb pressed slowly into the tense muscle there, working in small circles. The pressure was firm enough to ease the ache that had gathered from hunching over old books all evening.

You felt your shoulders loosen almost immediately. "Baelor..."

His hand moved lower. "Read, my love."

The broad span of his palm slid across your shoulder, kneading carefully through the stiffness he found there. The lesson was quickly losing its battle for your attention.

You sighed in surrender. "Perzysss—" The word died on your lips once more.

"The s is not to be pressed, my dear." His voice settled warmly against your back. "Valyrian is not a force. The sound comes from lower."

Two fingers came to rest against the hollow of your throat. "Here."

You swallowed at the touch, but it lingered for only a moment before he withdrew.

Then his hand slipped into your hair. Slowly, he spread the strands apart, untangling each knot. His fingertips skimmed your scalp as he worked, never pulling when he met resistance. Instead, he separated each tangle until your hair slipped like silk through his hands.

When a loose curl escaped beside your ear, he caught it immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek before guiding it back into place and folding it neatly into the plait.

Those scarred hands, marked by countless years in the yard and large enough to encircle a man's throat, moved through your hair with astonishing gentleness.

After a while, he smoothed your hair down your back and divided it into three sections. One strand crossed over another, then the third, and the braid slowly began to take shape.

You tried to focus on the page before you, but every gentle pass made the words blur a little further.

"It's almost supper, Baelor," you sighed. "Can we go now?"

“Almost.” He paid your words no mind, working in silence. With each movement, his hands continued lower as the braid formed, gentle pulls following every weave as he crossed and wove the strands into place.

He worked the braid to its end, fastening the final twists before reaching for the silk ribbon upon the desk. He tied it off and let it cascade over your shoulder.

"There you go." His lips brushed against your ear. "Gevie," he whispered.

At the word, you turned slightly. He was close enough that you could count the dark lashes framing his mismatched eyes.

"I know that one. It means beautiful."

A smile softened his features. "Yes." He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. "Now read, ñuha gevie dāria. Then we'll head to supper."

Clink, clink, clink

The soft metallic sound followed every movement of your naked form. It was Lyonel’s idea to show him off the collection of jewellery he presented you almost everyday of your stay in Dorne. You thought of it as too much and redundant at the time, but now it had a perfect background of your sun-kissed skin, glowing with beads of sweat.

There was everything you could think of and more. Delicate, golden chains adorned with glass beads, a bigger one with precious stones that matched your eyes, some pearls with silver handiwork.

You felt ridiculous with this amount of wealth displayed on your body but one burning gaze from Lyonel melt all your doubts. Seven above could not stop him from getting to you and crushing his lips against yours in a needy and haste kiss.

“Woman, what you do to me is unbelievable,” he whispered huskily, taking in your form, admiring every piece adorning you, “You look like a gift from above.”

“Would you like to unpack me?” your fingers entwined into dark hair of his, holding him close for another kiss. “I see you took some of my jewellery,” you fixed your eyes on bracelets dangling around his forearm.

“Yes, I did. Are you going to punish me for that?” his hands were roaming all over, touching, feeling and squeezing your figure, “Gods, I need you.”

And that was the last coherent noise either of you would produce for some time.

Clink, clink, clink

“Look at you, taking me so well. Such a good, willing–ohh” you lost your thought at the burning sensation coiling up in your core. Your hips moved in slow, deliberate movements dragging desperate moans from man under you, “You like that, don’t you?”

All he could do was to silently nod as his fingers dug into your flesh, leaving possessive marks on it. Another broken whine escaped as you rocked your hips faster.

“Shhh, my love it’ll be over as soon as you give me what you need,” you whispered above his ear, admiring the ruin of his skin left after your nails.

Your fingers caressed the marks, drawing out shaky plea, “Let me come, please.”

“Is this what you want?” a cruel half smile appeared on your lips at Lyonel’s frantic gaze. You perfectly knew he was overstimulated and yet, you couldn’t help yourself but prolong a bit his agony. His cock twitching with every move on the border of spilling before you allow him to do so.

“Yes, gods, yes!” he reached the point where he didn’t care who would hear him. The only remaining thought was to release everything that build up to the point of boiling him inside out.

“Then come, my love,” you whispered into his ear, biting on the neck.

Your hand reached down to his manhood, hard, covered with precum, begging to be touched again. Mercifully, you did exactly that moving simultaneously with your thrusts. His whimpers of pleasure, each tremble you earned as you worked him towards his peak, was a delicious melody to your ears.

A low moan rumbled deep down in Lyonel’s chest as he came with erratic movements and twitches, staining your fingers and bedsheets beneath, “Such a good, obedient boy. Doing exactly what he’s told to,” you tugged his sweat dampened hair, revealing a completely fucked out expression.

You let him fall senseless on the soft mattress hiding tactfully your handiwork. You heard a soft groan as you backed and freed yourself from strap, abandoning it on the floor.

“Are you alright, my love?” you slowly find your way to embrace him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder, hands caressing tender skin.

“Mmhm, I’m better than alright,” he murmured, voice still bearing tunes of strain, yet he leaned in for your touch and smell. One hand travelled down in search of your soft hip, grabbing it as if life depended on it, “You did a wonderful job, my sweet. I’d never presumed in my wildest dreams… You have a natural talent, love,” to punctuate his opinion, Lyonel slapped your hip with a pleased hum.

You laughed warmly, peppering his shoulder blade with small kisses, “Well, I learn from the best,” you replied cheekily, biting into skin.

“You are a trouble, woman,” you giggled with content at his remark and rolled over to face him with the most innocent smile possible.

“I thought you liked me,” you cupped his face and fixed messed up curls. Lyonel laughed dearly and swiftly imprisoned your upper body under his.

“Woman, what shall I do with you,” his frame hovered above you as he studied you. How your eyes sparkled with mischief, now a bit uncertain of his intentions. How your hair spilled on the softest pillows in vivid colours adding more to your flushed physique, “Absolutely breathtaking,” his murmur followed by soft kisses along your jaw sent shivers down your back, igniting a stir in your abdomen.

“What are you looking for?”

“Hush now, wife. I’m not quite done,” his mouth followed your neck line down to jewellery.

“Lyonel –,” your breath hiked as man’s lips captured one of your nipples with pleased purr, immediately followed by sucking and groping your other breast, earning a shy moan. You observed his doing with half lidded eyes not sure what you enjoyed more. The view or the feeling building up in your core, “Lyonel…”

For a moment he stopped his sweet torture to observe you hungrily, pupils blown to extent you could only see them with a faint rim of his usual hazel colour.

“Come to me,” you pulled him closer for a kiss, buying yourself some time from his greediness. You drowned in sensation of his lips taking over yours, his tongue exploring your mouth, “Gods, Lyonel,” your whisper was barely audible, reserved only for his mouth to experience, “What are you thinking about?”, his hazy gaze all over your face told you he was up for something.

“I cannot neglect the other one, that would be a crime,” this time you felt teeth teasing your sensitive skin as he resumed his task dutifully.

Clink, clink, clink

The afternoon turned into the evening and even though the temperature was slowly surrendering to soothing chill of oncoming night, you were burning. Stretched out, on a display and mercy of your husband’s will. He would probably name it as the highest beading to the most divine creature that graced this land with its presence since arrival of Andals, or other pompous nonsense. Your mind was too occupied with the last waves of your second high, to come up with any other word than spent. Completely and utterly devastated as your husband’s fingers and hungry lips leapt at your over sensitive core, putting not a drop to a waste.

You stared blankly at the canopy above your head, trying to gather anything left from your lungs to ease the breath. Your eyes followed intricate pattern of vines, grapes woven between always-present suns, down to Lyonel’s vigilant eyes peeking from between your legs, where he got way too comfortable, in your opinion.

“What are you looking at?” you huffed, blush dangerously creeping back on your already elated face.

“The goddess incarnated. Breathtaking, astonishing, magnificent,” each word declared with reverence worthy of a Septon, landed on the altar of your womanhood, closely followed by offerings of his lips and tongue, much to your trouble. Involuntary, your thighs closed on Lyonel’s head, trying to escape the torment that brought you pleasure moments ago.

“Stop, for fucks sake,” you whined with a laugh lingering between the words, releasing your husband from his cage, “Choose your next laurel of victory, ser, and begone for a moment.”

He slowly rose from his position and with trail of soft kisses, nimble hands tracing ghosts of bruises across your hips, belly and rib cage, Lyonel dragged his body weigh on you capturing your frame carefully, “If only I could show you how you look in my eyes, my love,” he kissed your temple and you lips soon followed the same fate. You hated how quickly he was able to hitch your breath, especially when you could taste yourself on him.

“Seven hells, I do taste good,” you bit his lower lip with wicked laugh hearing his low growl against your throat. You caught something about how improper for a lady was to act in such a manner, murmured in between kisses. For a moment Lyonel stilled above your breasts, carefully picking the prize for his efforts to join the other necklace he was already wearing.

“Give me this one,” his fingers stroked a simple gold chain, conveniently caressing your breast along the way, drawing out a soft whimper. You lifted your head for him to free the desired trinket.

Your eyes wandered around Lyonel’s face, neck, bare chest decorated with jewellery complimenting his gold earring, silently observing further shenanigans as his palms explored your skin. You were lying comfortably on the mess that was a bed some time ago, enjoying his touch and closeness of his body.

Gods, he’s beautiful, you thought suddenly, your expression softening as your fingers ran through black of his hair, gently scratching scalp. You could call Lyonel many words handsome, boisterous, sometimes pain in the ass but right now, as his head was resting on your belly, arms securely wrapped around your waist and the rest of his figure was tangled between your legs, beautiful was the only word that suited him most.

“Are you asleep, my love?” you asked softly, when his breathing got suspiciously even and you didn’t feel no more fingers digging in your sides.

“No, just resting, thinking… imagining really,” he answered, shifting so he could meet your gaze.

“What exactly? If you don’t mind sharing,” your fingers stroked his hair again.

“Just everything and nothing. What will the future bring,” you rose your eyebrow waiting for him to continue, “you know, how many babes are we having and –“

“Having?” you inquired with quiet laugher.

“Well, we fuck like rabbits in spring, I wouldn’t be surprised if a little fawn wasn’t growing in you this very moment,” you scrunched your nose at the metaphor and how eagerly he flooded your belly with attention and kisses.

“A pretty, little babe smart like its mother, and strong as its father,” he murmured with soft chuckle as if he didn’t want to stir any peace of creation that might have already been happening, “I don’t care for a boy or a girl, both is good. I’ll make a man out of anything, really.”

“Well, I don’t know how the following years will unfold but I can tell you this,” your tone and mischievous twinkle in eye caught his attention almost immediately in between the kisses, halting abruptly any movement.

“Oh?” he hummed intrigued, his lips vibrating gently just above your navel, creating a pleasant shiver running across your body.

“I’m going to tell you, what is going to happen now. One by one, yes?” Lyonel nodded silently, dragging lazily his fingers across your thigh, “I want you to fuck me properly, no more hands, no more bratty mouth of yours.”

“I thought you liked them,” his smile was devilishly troublesome as he curled his moustache, still damped with your arousal and spent.

“Hush now, husband, I’m not quite done,” you scoffed him much to his growing enjoyment, “You are going to fuck me slow and deep. Deep enough for me to feel you in my stomach, yes?”

“You like to order around today, my queen.”

“And you are exceptionally good at following,” the necklaces proved themselves to be a good enough leash to bring him closer, nudging his nose with yours, “If you want to give me your babe, you’ll nicely fuck it in me, yes?”, breaths quicken at the idea, “More than happy to oblige – oh, shut up and kiss me.”

“As my lady commands,” for a second he toyed with your anticipation, observing how you were breaking into pieces under his gaze, before crushing your lips with his fuelled with unspoken hunger and faint tint of your taste lingering on his skin.

You reached down to his hardening member and gave him much needed attention with gentle strokes, spreading glistening precum, drawing a gruff moan, “There you are,” you purred sweetly, feeling how he tensed and twitched under your touch, his head falling back.

He was getting lost in your sensation, slow and deliberate movement that created a pleasurable edge on which he could spend the whole night. His blown pupils observed intently every mimic change, every slightest whimper leaving your lips as you watched your handiwork and effect it had on him. Oh he knew, he saw how much it aroused you as well, how your hips began to move searching for any kind of release in the emptiness.

Soon. The relish of anticipation dizzied in his head better than any ale or wine he had drank. The prize of your soft and welcoming pussy, inviting and squeezing him relentlessly worked Lyonel up faster than he would like to admit, “If you continue, I’ll come undone like a green boy,” The short laugh you let out meant only trouble for him. The kind of trouble he loved to follow.

“That would be wasteful of us,” the mattress under you whispered silently as you moved, positioning Lyonel’s tip at your heat, slowly hooking your thighs around his hips, “Come to me,” you whispered and he compelled.

Nonchalantly and purposefully rolled his length into you, into the soft and wet core of yours he was fantasying moments ago. In unison you moaned at the sensation, holding one another, embracing the intimacy of it.

“Is this what you wanted?” voice above your earlobe, followed by a kiss sent a shiver down your spine. Your fingers tangled in the black of his hair, “Seven, yes,” you breathed.

Only then he began to move. Slowly, agonisingly slow for you to feel every inch of him, bullying his way into your heat. Just as you wanted it, deep to the rim, stretching you deliciously, filling you to the point your lungs protested.

Hungry eyes were feasting over your reactions, the soft moans that escaped your mouth accompanied by whispers of his name, the half lidded eyes as you embraced thrusts and each time your lashes fluttered a bit more. The feeling of your hammering heart, pounding through you as he was following your directions.

Shallow, shallow, shallow, shallow, deep

A sweet sting of a building coil in your belly left your pouty lips slightly open just enough to invite a sloppy kiss, leaving you breathless. The pace was relentless and unforgiving, destructive in its precision as he was burying himself to the shaft, balls clapping against curve of your ass.

“I thought no hands,” he noticed absence of your palm in his hair, watching it disappear between your bodies, as the other scratched toned muscles of his abdomen.

“Yours, Lyonel. Are you jealous?” you asked innocently, drawing slow circles as he fucked into you.

“A little,” a moan escaped you as he changed the angle, “Give it to me,” he captured your hand and without breaking the eye contact his tongue cleaned it off with an expression of a pleased cat, “You’re divine.”

“You’re obscene,” you would be lying if it didn’t pull another string, if that was even possible.

“Apparently, you enjoy it. I feel how you squeeze me – fuck,” his voice faltered at the sensation of you clenching around his cock.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” you gave him a sultry smile, pulling Lyonel for yet another passionate kiss, “I want to come on your dick. I know you can do this.”

“Oh yes, gods,” your legs tightened around his waist, bringing him closer, leaving no space whatsoever.

“Mhmm… Give me my third orgasm today? Be a good fuck toy?” his moans rang in your ears as your teeth found sensitive flesh at the nape of his neck and bit into it, “Seven hells, you do enjoy that.”

You didn’t need answer, you felt him twitching and dragging out the movements just to bottom you with scandalous sounds of your arousal. You were close, you sensed it for a moment as your hips began to stutter  and welcome his movement with feverish vehemence. A pleasant warmness spread across your limbs, sending waves of shivers through and up to the top of your head.

In a swift move, one of your legs was now resting on his shoulder, palms held above your head sank in soft silk and mattress, pinned down harshly.

“Put your hand around my neck,” you breathed out with anything that was left in you, accommodating to the new position, “Squeeze it… gods, mhmm, don’t you dare to stop,” a delicious pressure around your throat, his lips trailing your jaw nearly sent you over.

But it was his voice, rasped, rugged and completely pussy-drunken confessions he was spilling in your ear as his hands tighten around your flesh, steadying you, grounding in the bed. The litany of filthy prayers that would burn ears of any septa, accompanied by your solemn moans of pleasure, crowning each forceful thrust.

“Take what you need, my doe. I can feel it, I have you,” your eyes were plastered to his visage, no thought behind them whatsoever, just the overwhelming feeling of how good he made you feel, how his cock bullied your cervix with each deep movement, tears slowly building in your waterlines. Your lips slightly agape, fighting for any chance for breathing, “Take it, take all of it. Be a good wife.”

Your loud moan was silenced by his lips, as a toe-curling wave of pleasure rushed through you, sending your eyes back. You arched pressing your body closer to his, as Lyonel firmly fucked you through your peak, prolonging it mercilessly with a self-satisfied grin plastered to his face between grunts of thrill.

“Don’t stop, I like to feel you fuck me after I come,” you begged, eyes still half lidded as you indulged in Lyonel’s penetration, again slower and more intimate in his movements, filling you even more as your muscles relaxed, “– so, so good,” you babbled riding the last remaining feeling of your peak.

“Gods, I love your cock,” he chuckled loudly at your confession, and slowly shifted, sitting up, with your legs held securely against his hips, spread for him to admire.

“I’ve heard that before,” he mumbled incoherently staring intently as you greedily took him, effortlessly swallowing his whole length, “Now, that is something I can watch for all eternity.”

If it was possible for you to blush even more, you would resemble a sun setting down, hearing his words and brothel suiting sounds, surrounding your heavy breathing. As one of his hands slithered down to tease bud of your nipple, the other was surely leaving bruises on your thigh, you felt again a coil building up.

“Gods, you’ll ruin me,” you whined under his hawk-like glare, prying on your sensitivity.

“I only do what you’ve demanded, sweetheart,” Lyonel’s voice taunted mockingly.

“I think you can use that mouth of yours again,” your fingers trailed back his palm around your breast, squeezing it light.

“Is that so? You want me to tell you how good you feel?” you nodded frantically, as he rested your legs on his shoulders, “Oh, you are desperate,” he cooed sweetly with a shade of sarcasm, lowering himself just enough to deepen his thrusts, meeting your hips with punishing pace, “Can you feel it? How well you take me? So wet and warm, so inviting,” slick noises an undeniable confirmation of the spoken words, “so good for me, you’ll be such a good mother. Just let me put a babe in you, let me round you up,” you soaked up every single word he gave you, beaming in them and tightening your slick core, demanding more of his attention with a needy moan, promptly captured by his filthy lips.

“I can already picture it, swell of your belly, full breasts barely held by any dress… Gods be good, you wouldn’t easily get rid of me,” your legs returned around his hips, creating heavenly friction with each move. Your fingers tangled in his greying hair, the other leaving unforgivable marks across his back as Lyonel held you in a secure headlock, leaving needy kisses between his words, “I would knock you up again as you carry my babe… just to feel how you milk me to the last drop… shhh, I know– I have you,” you felt yourself drifting away as your peak was slipping in closer.

“I’m barely holding love, just tell me please, tell me love,” he pleaded, his forehead resting on yours, still allowing you to boss him around. And yet, you found yourself utterly lost of words, managing a slow nod against him, “Speak to me, woman. Do you want it?”

“Yes–,” you whisper faintly, feeling a devastating wave of your fourth orgasm, steadily rushing through your body, as Lyonel with all the intensity he had left in him, pumped into you, painting your walls with his seed, groaning loudly in the crook of your neck, “Take it, take what’s yours.”

He kept urging himself deeper into you, completely buried, listening and sensing how your peak collected all your limbs, head and voice, barely allowing you to let out more than a broken moan.

After a moment all movement stopped and only laboured breaths and smell of your bodies were the only remnants of your coupling. Lyonel’s whole weight atop of you, impeding any movement except for brushing his hair, as his head rested against your chest, imprinting the beads in your and his skin.

“You worn me out, woman,” he mumbled in your breast, leaning in for your touch. You snorted lightly, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, “Gods, your cunt must be carved by the Maiden herself, what? That’s true!” he opposed to your appalled scoff, “Also, I’m waiting for my bounty, my most precious, most outraged wife,” he allowed himself to punctuate each word with feather-like pecks left just under your sternum, impatiently waiting for the reply.

“Here, you can take the third one–, even the fourth,” you spoke as your breath steadied a bit. You unclasped two out of still, too many necklaces you had and put them around Lyonel’s neck, adding to the two he already had. Wearing them as hard earned trophies, “They suit you, you know? My pretty, little thing. Would you like some more?”

You observed, that his skin was tanned as well and the jewellery he was carrying just added something spicy to his usual look. It was not a mystery you liked to observe your husband, taking pride in him, sometimes even gawking especially at the training court but now? Seven help you, because the picture in front of you was just too tempting not to fulfil. If he could relish in your golden apparel, who were you to deny yourself the same sinful thing?

“I would be far from complaining.”

“Really? Would you like to dress up for your lovely wife? All in gold, silver and jewels?” you stretched with a pleased expression, already picturing Lyonel to your please, in nothing more but the finest, the most intricate goldsmith’s bauble, “I feel like we should explore the market morrow morning to find something pretty for my pretty boy,” your eyes lighten up with further pleasantries that flooded your imagination.

“You are looking for a trouble, my sweet angel of a wife,” a hum of content escaped you at his remark, already plotting sweet tortures to torment your man with in the morrow’s evening, if you prove yourself to be patient enough. The thrill of excitement rushed through your body as you smiled.