Her Majestys Service

Wesley sniffled loudly. The cloistered walk was dreadfully drafty, and he was sure he'd catch his death if he didn't get assigned to a new post soon. If the cold didn't get him, the boredom certainly would.

A gravely voice shattered the gusty midnight quiet. "Boy, over here."

Wes snapped to attention, clutching his polearm tight as he searched the dark gallery for the source of his summons.

"At ease, lad, don't go running me through with that thing now."

Wes squinted into a warm pool of brazier light as the figure showed itself to be none other than Gauwynn Tollere, lord captain of the royal guard and storied hero of a hundred campaigns at least. Even at sixty-something, the old war dog could have laid Wes flat on his ass in the blink of an eye.

"Lord," Wes replied, clapping a hand to his breastplate in salute.

"Wesley, yes?"

Wes nodded, feeling a little silly at the way his ill-fitted steel helm rocked back and forth on his head. "Aye, lord."

"Good. Come along then." The old goat didn't wait for Wes' reply, turning to leave the way he'd come. Wesley glanced around furtively; Lord Tollere was the highest-ranking official in the service, but leaving a post was a capital offense. "Hurry along, lad; I won't let them hang you. Not for this anyway!" His booming bark of a laugh shocked Wes' feet into motion.

Along twisting ways and down endless stairs, Gauwynn led Wesley into the bowels of the imperial palace without so much as a word, occasionally nodding to acknowledge the nervous salutes of other palace guards as they passed.

"In here," the grizzled veteran intoned, pushing into an unremarkable chamber somewhere deep in the keep's undercroft.

A single lamp sputtered greasily from the small table of what was obviously a disused storeroom. Two chairs and a stack of rotting crates completed the decor.

"Close the door, and take a seat."

Wes did as he was bade, leaning his halberd against the wall and setting his helmet on the table. Across from him, the older man groaned nearly as loud as the tortured chair he settled into as it struggled to uphold the immense weight of his muscly bulk and burnished plate mail.

"Phaw," grumbled the elder soldier, slapping his heavy gloves onto the tabletop before producing a pair of stone crocks and a pitcher of heady, fragrant mead from nowhere. "You'll be wanting this, boy. Drink up." Wes accepted the offered cup and drained it in a noisy gulp, wanting his commander to think him a worthy drinking partner. "Good lad. Now, the truth for me, eh? Eh?"

Wesley nodded, suddenly concerned he'd done something wrong. Surely he'd be dead already if he'd done anything to warrant the ire of someone like Lord Tollere. "Yes, lord."

"Good. Good." He scrubbed a hand through his beard to wipe away the errant dregs of his own hasty gulp before carrying on. "When did you last bathe, eh?"

Wes knew better than to do anything other than answer the question directly but failed to keep the puzzled look from his face. "My unit was inspected Thursday last, lord. We scrubbed in the creek that morning."

"Three days then. Not great. Not bad, but not great."

An abrupt knock at the door startled Wes, who turned in time to watch it open just enough to admit the face of a guard he didn't know. "She's on her way, sire. Two minutes."

"Very good, as you were Pymm."

The youth nodded his head and ducked out as swiftly as he'd arrived.

"And your teeth then," Gauwynn carried on, flashing a yellowing smile, "you've got all your teeth, yes?"

Wes stretched his mouth ludicrously in reply, shutting his trap only once his superior had nodded in satisfaction.

"Fine then, that's...that's fine."

Another knock.

"Aye!"

"You called for me lord?" Jocelyn said as she slipped into the small, dank chamber. Wes pursed his lips in what he hoped would pass for a polite smile. The lady's maid was known to him, to say the least.

"Right, yes." The older man suddenly seemed to border on discomfort, which set Wesley's teeth on edge. What could flap the legendary Butcher of Borelia? Surely not mere waifish maiden in her night slip? "Listen to me boy, we said truth, aye?"

Wes nodded. Jocelyn looked on placidly from the corner of the room, obviously having been roused from bed only minutes prior as she stifled a yawn.

"Good. Right. So, uh, have you- you know," he stammered, glancing at Jocelyn briefly, "Have you made it with a lass yet?"

Jocelyn snorted through the tail end of her yawn loudly, failing to hide her laughter.

"I- I have, lord."

"Right, uh. it's just- is something the matter, girl?"

"Apologies, lord," Jocelyn laughed, waving her hand as if to dismiss the fit of giggles.

"Alright," he replied slowly, missing whatever private irony she was enjoying. "That's as may be, but I'll need to, you know, erm." He cleared his throat loudly. "I'll need to know for certain so if you could, uh-"

"Oh, lord I..." Wes began as Jocelyn blurted her own protest loudly alongside him.

"What?!" He demanded.

"That will NOT be happening!" Jocelyn exclaimed angrily.

"But he's washed on Thursday!" Gauwynn pled.

Wes held a hand up to each side, hoping to placate the pair before they came to blows. "Lord, please! She's...she's my cousin!"

"Oh," the older man said sheepishly.

"Sick old man," Jocelyn said, turning her nose up and folding her arms resolutely. "Waking me up in the middle of the night to watch me fuck my cousin. Wait till Her Majesty hears about this!"

"That's not what this is!" he blurted out. "And there's no need to bother Her with this; she...she already knows. Well, she already knows enough."

It was Jocelyn's turn to be humbled. "Oh, I... of course. Apologies, lord. I didn't know that's what this was."

"It's fine," he muttered. Wes was sure now that he was missing out on some shared conspiracy between them. "All of us serve the royal family faithfully, each in our own way."

"I can vouch for him, sire; he took Lillen to bed not two moons ago. She told us all he was...very vigorous."

Gauwynn cleared his throat again needlessly. "Very good," he said to his feet. "That'll...that'll do fine. Pymm can walk you back to your quarters then. Sorry to disturb you."

Without another word, Wes' cousin popped an admirably appropriate curtsey, given the confusion of the preceding minutes, before showing herself out. By the time Wes turned back to face the man, he'd foregone his cup entirely in favor of draining the entire pitcher of mead sloppily.

"Nice girl," he said as he hammered the jug back onto the table.

"The temper's from my mother's side," Wes mumbled, earning a wry chuckle from the old vet.

"Aye, well, it was my mistake. Half the palace is related in some way or another. But anyway, let's get this dog and pony show over with, eh?"

Wes nodded, still almost entirely unsure what dogs and ponies he'd be shown.

*******

As Gauwynn had promised on the long ascent to the West wing's uppermost tower, the generously appointed antechamber had an empty rack for his armor. With shaky hands, Wes fumbled with the straps and buckles that secured his plates, greaves, pauldrons, and gauntlets in place. It was only after he kicked his boots off that Wes realized he'd likely tracked mud all over the expensive-looking carpet on the floor.

"Shit," he muttered, trying and failing to ignore the heavy door at the other end of the room.

"Your shirt too," whispered a voice from behind a heavily draped tapestry behind him.

Wes spun, tired of being snuck up on that night. "What?"

"Your shirt," said the voice again. A corner of the tapestry peeled back to reveal a trio of maidens all leaning over one another, obviously crowded into a hidden passage of some sort. Wes conceded that it made sense that there might be secret rooms and escape routes twisting all through this part of the castle. With a start, he recognized all but one of the faces.

"Lillen?"

"What?! I wanted to see for myself. Here!" She lobbed a brick of fragrant soap at him, pointing at a standing basin in the corner of the candlelit drawing room. "Scrub your balls," she whispered as loud as she dared.

"Not while she's watching!" He replied, pointing at his cousin.

"Fine," Jocelyn spat breathily, "Just don't fuck this up or the whole family's dead!"

"I won't fuck it up!"

Jocelyn and the girl he didn't know disappeared from sight with a snort, leaving Lillen to linger.

"You should really do that thing; she might like it," she offered.

"Yeah, maybe," Wes replied, a pit of nerves growing in his stomach as his most recent tumble retreated to join her compatriots.

Giving his cock a hasty scrub in the tepid water, Wesley dried himself off on his tunic. He could hear Gauwynn's last command ringing in his ears as he realized it was now or never.

"Don't keep her waiting, lad. She's not known to be a patient woman."

He pushed through into the next room.

Less a bedchamber and more of an apartment in its own right, Queen Farrah's suite was almost torturously warm after the relative cold of the rest of the palace. Soft light from dozens of sources bounced and flickered off the seemingly innumerable pieces of furniture; shelves, chairs, settees, partitioning dividers, and low tables divided the space into a number of distinct areas in a way that made Wes uncomfortable. Lord Tollere told him to make for the bed, but it took Wesley longer than it should have to spot the towering wooden structure that made the thing up.

Approaching around the scattered furniture softly, Wesley marveled at the excess of the thing; his own small cot was scarcely big enough for him to lay on alone, but Her Majesty's expansive, silk-spread mattress could have comfortably borne a dozen people at once. Given that he was here at all, he wondered if it ever had.

"I'll be out in a minute," called a voice that could only have been one woman. "Take some water or wine on the bedside table if you like."

He'd never pass up the chance to know what wine fit for a queen tasted like. The stuff was over sweet for his liking, but it lit a fire in his belly that he was thankful for nonetheless.

"Well chosen," said the voice behind him again, now much closer. Wes turned slowly.

He'd seen her, once, when his family had first shipped him off to serve in her court. His father was a poor provincial lord with little else to offer to his betters, so Wes had been packed up and sent to serve just in time for that year's royal muster. Though he'd only marched past the royal family's balcony long enough to steal a fleeting look, Wes couldn't help but feel doubly cowed now under her gaze. She was, to put it mildly, an imposing woman. Where Wes was firmly built thanks to a soldier's diet and days spent training in the yards, the Queen's body was shaped softly by years of decadent comfort. Older than he by almost as many years as he'd been alive, the Rubenesque woman before him now stole his breath and turned his legs to jelly. He broke out in a cold sweat as he realized how little the thin silken robe she wore actually covered. He dropped to a knee, as was proper.

"Majesty," he said, fighting the tremble in his voice as she stepped into the room proper.

"Yes, yes, on your feet," she said impatiently, stepping around his kneeling form to set her gilded goblet on a small table. "You're not a virgin, are you? I told my girls to stop letting Gauwynn send virgins in here."

Wes scrambled to his feet as she plucked at a cluster of grapes, her striking red hair throwing the light of a hundred candles back at them as she nibbled.

"No, majesty, not a virgin."

"Mmm," she hummed. "Better not be. I'm not exactly in the mood to wait around for another cock all night."

Wes wondered why the King's cock wouldn't do, but thought better of asking.

"Well then," she said, turning from her snack to look at him. "I didn't bring you in here for small talk; off with your trousers." Brushing her hands together to flick off whatever imagined crumbs she'd picked up, Queen Farrah tugged at her robe's slender tie and shrugged the thing off her shoulders.

She was at least twice the woman Lillen had been.

"As you command," he replied, wiggling his way out of the rough pants obediently.

He knew better than to look her in the eye but failed utterly to keep his eyes off her wide ass and swaying hips as she mounted the bed. Her heavy tits, each heavier than he imagined he could bear the weight of in two hands, flopped to either side of her chest as she lay back against a small mountain of glossy red pillows. All the women he'd talked into fucking him had sported pert little tits with nipples the size of a silver Crown; not so with her majesty, whose brown buds were each rimmed with a dark stain the size of a dinner plate. He wondered if there was any chance she'd let him suck on one, just for a minute.

Wes stood at the end of the bed, nearly a dozen feet from where Her Highness lay in repose, wondering if he was meant to just...get to it. Luckily, he hadn't worn her patience out entirely yet.

"What do you think then?" She asked, spreading her legs in a display so brazen that Wes had to fight the urge not to avert his gaze. It wasn't every day he got asked to comment on a royal snatch.

"Your Majesty's hair..." he began, not knowing where he was going. He'd heard of women, especially nobles, going through the effort to crop their pubic hair, but he'd never heard of anyone shaving it off completely.

She looked down at her body, peeking at her smooth, mounding puff past her tummy. "A ridiculous practice," she laughed, "but apparently in fashion to the east. You wouldn't believe how long it takes!" She slapped at herself affectionately, as one might do to the rump of a favorite dog.

"You look good enough to eat," Wes offered.

He feared he'd gone too far.

She squinted at him suspiciously but made no effort to hide herself. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

"Your pardon, Majesty, it's just an expression."

"What sort of fucking expression is it to say you want to eat someone?! Christ, you really are a virgin, aren't you?"

"No!" Wes protested. "Begging your forgiveness, it's just...it means to, erm, lick. To lick someone. A lady."

She wrinkled her nose in a way that Wes found irresistibly playful as she looked at him. "And this licking, you enjoy it? You must; look at you standing there, practically dripping all over my rug!"

Wesley realized that his cock was well and truly giving his appreciation for her body away, and swung between the urge to hide it and stick it in her royal holes. "Well, I do, yes," he replied, "but it's mostly for the woman that it's done."

She shook her head in amused disbelief, stretching a hand out to pluck her cup off the table to take a thirsty swig. "The things you peasants get up to," she laughed. "Go on then, let me try some of this eating or licking or whatever you commoners enjoy."

Wes knew an order when he heard on.

Farrah parted her legs for him as he crawled up onto the bed, watching in curious wonder as the younger man wrapped his hands up under her thighs and actually, truly licked along her puffy slit. He'd been speaking literally after all.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, not certain what she'd expected his tongue to feel like, and as yet unsure whether she cared for the feeling. Still, she resolved to give him the benefit of the doubt. Most of the boys that got sent up here were such wooden fucks that she had to have them reassigned to provincial outposts just to get their sorry little cocks as far away as she could. The lad between her legs seemed to know what he was doing, even if she didn't, and she hummed appreciatively at the way he drew his tongue along her softly.

Wesley was just happy not to be eating a mouthful of coarse, curly hair for once.

"Oh, do that again!" Farrah commanded, clutching her hand in the air alongside her as the slow, rhythmic licks started to really satisfy. "Up at the top like that."

Wes knew something about the spot at the top, and was glad to do as he was told; the older woman's excitement was all over his chin by then already, but he knew that some sucking attention to her rigid little nib would have her squirming in his hands before long.

"Hah! Good boy!" she said, draining her cup and discarding it to put a hand on the back of his head. Her strong thighs tensed in his grip each time he stroked her little bump with the wide, flat top of his tongue. In time, her grip became more of a greedy shove, and he found his nose sealed against her pillowy mound more often than not. Still, he was her loyal subject, and he'd eat until his lungs gave out.

"Fucking gods above!" she moaned, face knit into a disbelieving canvas of nearly complete pleasure, "Keep going, please!"

Wes took her button between his lips, suckling her into his mouth to let his tongue massage the thing tenderly. He knew from past reviews that consistency was key, and fought the urge to let his Queen's rising excitement tempt him into a change of pace.

Her legs began to shake.

Her hand held his head against her firmly.

Her moans took on a decidedly undignified edge, somewhere between a whimper and sob.

Her hips powered themselves against his already punished face.

Her buttocks tensed without warning, and Wesley fought to hold his queen still to finish the work of making her cum.

"Ahhh!" she wailed against the throes of her beautiful agony, twitching and shuddering until Wesley was sure he'd brought her to utter joy.

He'd been told that anything past that point could be nearly painful, so he kissed the insides of her thighs and her fat mound delicately while she wound back to earth, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth before she could see him do so. In truth, he'd have worn her like a badge of honor if he wasn't so afraid of her thinking him a little savage.

"More," she demanded to his surprise. He defied royal decorum and looked to her face for reassurance, finding her needy plea writ clear in her eyes. "Give me that again."

He could do that

Risking nothing, given that he'd just rammed his face into her royal pussy, Wes shoved the thick woman's legs towards her. She took his intent plainly, letting him manhandle her into a little bundle of leaky impatience. Her slit angled toward him better, Wes dove back in for seconds.

And when she screamed into her shoulder while holding her own knees back, he went for thirds.

And fourths when she rolled pendulously on all fours to hold herself over his face like a bitch in heat.

And again as he wore her knees as earmuffs while she hovered over his lips, and at least twice more when she gave up the pretense of holding her weight off his thoroughly soaked face.

Wes licked. He ate and sucked and slurped and kissed and worshiped like he'd never imagined he could. His lips went numb and his tongue tingled, and his forgotten cock dragged leaky trails of sticky mess all over Queen Farrah's royal sheets. She called him every name under the sun, moon, and stars, her soft body slick with a thin sheen of sweat that made it hard for his hands to find purchase.

In time, which Wesley had entirely lost count of, she finally capitulated forward, crashing with a heavy thud against the preposterously large mattress in spent satisfaction.

"Fucking hells, boy," she sighed as she trailed her fingernails along her own hips luxuriously, "wait till my ladies hear about this."

Wes bit back a smile that his raw lips would hardly make anyway. He supposed it was for the best that Her Majesty not know that several of them were already familiar with his work.

"You're definitely a good one," she laughed, propping herself up on her elbows and smearing sweaty bangs away from her face. "I'll be keeping you around."

"I live to serve," Wes replied cheekily.