Knight who strokes himself to thoughts of his princess every night.
He starts slowly at first, tentative, as if he’s not sure he can go through with it, as if he hasn’t several times already.
Same song and dance, candles snuffed, ring finger gliding over himself straining through his trousers, the barest stimulation.
He thinks on the first day he was charged to her, how she barely paid him any mind. Dismissive, almost. He’d taken it personally then, though now he knows she’s simply quite- buttoned up.
And what he wouldn’t give to unbutton her.
The fingers flirting with his waistline now worked diligently at the buttons of his pants. One hand is non committal, almost an accident. Two would show far too much initiative, agency.
So he toils and throbs, keeping as still as he may with thoughts of her face dancing behind his eyelids.
Finally free, he grips himself slowly, softly.
She was quite witty, his princess. He was reminded now of an odd memory one might not typically call upon in a moment of such eroticism, and yet it came to him yet.
She’d asked for his accompaniment to the stables, where she’d sent for the fastest stallion. He had stuck with his own horse, sure that the princess had intentions only for a brief gallop in the midday.
She did not. She’d raced him hard and fast, and while his steed was trusty, it was no match for the best bred in the royal stables.
It was now that he understood why his mind had brought the memory to him in such a time. The way she laughed ahead of him, the sun in her hair, and most pertinent, the way she bounced in the saddle.
His fingers tightened around the shaft, keeping pace with her gallop in his mind. Up, down, up, down.
Tighter still, hips aching to move but he wouldn’t let himself rut into his hand for her like a beast, no, this was simply- a lapse in judgment. Anything more animalistic would preclude him from her service.
He wondered in fact if she’d even want him in her charge had she seen him like this.
As he pictured her face his hand slowed, grip loosing. Each stroke grew long, deliberate.
He wondered what she might say if she were here in front of him, if a rose shade might show itself to her cheeks. He’d seen it before when she’d had the displeasure of hearing him trade conversation with a servant about their respective first times. The poor boy had so much to learn, and he’d thought the princess would’ve been held just a trifle longer by the fitting of her gown.
God, she looked so pretty like that, coming around the corner all flushed and in that pale pink dress.
He wondered if she’d slap him, right here and now- he wondered if it would even stop him
How she might react if it didn’t stop him, if he’d smile and pick up the pace, bold and with the knowledge that this degenerate display could very well lead him to the gallows, positively uncaring and perhaps unwilling to stop considering his lady was stood aside him with those flushed cheeks and eyes pouring over him, darting up and down his body, her breathing low and quick like a field mouse-
That thought alone almost did him in, but it’d be a disgrace to summon her in his consciousness and not linger for a little while longer at least, and so he removed his hand, thrusted twice against his will and into nothing, then resumed.
He wondered what his lady might think about when she finds herself similarly struggling, a pang of jealousy hitting him hard and fast. He almost eschewed the notion entirely in service of a simpler fantasy but then he wouldn’t’ve been graced by the mental image of her on her face, palming between her legs and splayed out in her royal bedspread, drooling into the blankets with his name in the back of her throat.
He wondered, if this vision were real, and he had been there, what might he do for his lady? Certainly he’d shed himself of his cloth and sheaths, and certainly he’d flip her to her backside and bury his face between her legs.
He tightens his grip and bucked his hips now, forgetting his earlier judgment against the impulse. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t fight it any longer- still, he imagined her taste. Fresh sweat, the kind that smells so good on her when she’s in need of an escort from the summer gardens back to her bed, the heat having gotten to her.
He was conscious now of how defenseless she’d been then, passed out and lain to sheets.
Images of her neck flashed, her chest heaving, lips parted, eyes fluttering open to find him at her back, hand holding her hip in place as he thrusted absentmindedly into her- which would she do first? Moan, or scream?
That did him in, with a grunt his abdomen tightened and a rope of white shot itself on to his bare chest. He caught the breath he wasn’t keen he’d lost, then thought to clean himself up.
During which point he’d gotten side tracked by the image of her doing that part herself with her tongue pressed flat to him, dragging up his-
Well, it seems now he’s not quite done with his princess on this night.
