So she rose on her knees and pretended it was all his doing, and opened her eyes in time to see his studying her face just as her cunt met the head of his cock, just as she began to feel her lips parting down there, swallowing him.
Slow.
Slow.
Oh, the ecstasy that bloomed, shivered in, ran wild through her.
She sank, not once releasing her gaze from his, knowing they joined, that she was impaled on him.
Her little sobs on the way down, had her heart kicking at her, made desire swell, and when he began to revolve his finger around her sore but somehow happy nipples, she gave a loud cry and shoved herself lower, then, only then, did she arch backward.
The slide, the large thing penetrating her. It was…
It was exquisite. Miniature orgasms seemed to burst through her, and she sat on him stuck, impaled, fully penetrated but still for a few seconds.
Then he made her rise again and then lower herself.
His thrusting began. The saltshaker in her rear hole flowered whole new feelings that merged with what was done to her pussy.
Soon she was sobbing and crying out with every sink and rise and, if she paused, John drove upward into her.
Caught in an immense wave of desire, muscles stiffening, her head thrown back, she squeezed onto him and rocked. In that moment, he found her clit and stimulated it. The sounds as she was speared, the wet sounds added to the carnality, the awesomeness. Soon, soon, he wrought a final shattered whimper from her as she orgasmed onto his cock. The saltshaker felt impossibly hard, as she clamped down, taut, shaking, coming.
Coming…
She panted, clutching at the man before her, hands slipping down his rocklike shoulders, bowing forward. Spent.
Limp, she let him turn her as he stood and then bend her over the table, shoving her, breasts squashing down and sliding. He fucked her then, jarring the table as their flesh banged into it, coming inside her, with the tablecloth bunched and sliding, the dishes rattling, and the crowd cheering them on.
It was only in the aftermath, as she lay struggling to catch her breath, with John wiping her down with cloths, and her knees aching from hitting something below, did she hear the prince say words that brought silence from the others.
“I am curious as to where you learned to fuck like that, and also to play chess as you did, John.”
Why were they quiet? She turned her head to hear better.
“My brother, lord. He is very good at both.” John sounded unmoved by either the sex or the silence, or the question.
“I have heard, a few days ago, of two brothers, who are known to the princess of our neighboring country, Bitzocoin. One is supposedly her fiancée and lost, abducted, while the brother has himself stolen away Princess Pollianna, a lovely redhead like your slave girl you just fucked. No relation?”
“None whatsoever, lord.”
“Good. For if I thought you were related, I would make enquiries. Especially seeing your name is also John.”
Fuck. She swore that under her breath, into the napkin next to her mouth.
A princess should never swear in public.
A new rule was needed, she decided, while also wondering when her arms and legs would decide to let her rise.
Swearing is allowed in public if said princess has been violated and made to climax in front of her enemies.
The prince let them leave after that alarming exchange, but both she and John knew the situation had altered.
“I’ll be sending you both an invitation for tomorrow’s banquet, John,” the prince shouted as they reached the exit of the marquee. “I simply must get you to try my whips on her! A collar? Leash? Chains perhaps?”
His voice faded as they entered the darkness outside.
She’d not broken the pretense of being a slave. Not yet. It seemed the prince was safer when they let him imagine her cowed. Another night was the most they would get, surely, before he would trap her.
“We must leave before the next banquet,” she said, as they reached the wagon. “If we can?”
“Yes. I agree. This is too dangerous now. But he will expect us to try escaping.”
And if caught doing so, that would be the end of pretending, and might be the end of them.
“By the way,” John added. “What was all the tapping on my knee while I played chess?”
So he didn’t know the tap code? “Nothing.”
“Hmph.”
Best not to tell him that her actions might have had him strung by his testicles.
* * * * *
Maybe they’d grown used to him surrendering to their will? Xander wasn’t sure. But as they lowered him into the coffin, he did know the corked ampoule of antidote he’d pickpocketed from the Storyteller was inside his pants pocket. It worked quickly, but now was not the time to use it. Somehow, he would have to swallow it after they sedated him but before the drug stopped his arms working.
Near impossible.
From now on, every chance he had would be weighed up. Not yet. Not this time. They watched him through the glass of the closing lid, and already his eyelids were heavy.
As they lowered the lid fully, he threw up a floppy arm and met the glass with a bang.
What if he broke it?
Beyond the dirty glass was a curved white wall with a vine of thorns strangling it, climbing higher. He followed its path and there at the very top was a conical lid of blue tiles.
This was… he wracked his brain for the answer. A tower?
He remembered those. The tower slid into an out-of-focus muddle. His hand slipped down the glass and landed by his side.
“Go to sleep,” said the Storyteller, with muffled voice. He lifted the lid
