The Royal Heirs

This is a continuation of The Royal Heirs story. All characters are 18 or older.

***

Later that night, the King's chambers had been cleared and cleaned, his body washed twice over by the Lady Siobhan, and he sat behind the desk tucked in a corner. He swirled a small glass of deep red wine in his hand and tried to pay attention as his steward talked him through the following day's events.

The King picked absently at a plate of bread and cheese as the man spoke.

"You'll be expected to attend the coming of age ball in the midafternoon," the old man said. "And of course, the host's feast will follow to round out our visit to the Isles."

"Yes, very good," King Entega said. "Will there be anything else, Ordran?"

"Only a few more items, Your Grace," the man said.

He had served Entega's mother when she had ruled, and oversaw the King's coronation just a few months earlier. He was a portly old man with a clean shaven head, hardly coming up to the King's chest when they stood face to face. There was little about the goings on of the Empire that Ordran did not know, and he had been placed in charge of the entire Royal Tour.

But now he was going on and on, covering the intricacies of court politics that had come to him with the latest batch of letters from the Capital. The King cared little for such things so far from his court -- he had left behind his sister and aunt to rule in his stead as he planted the regal seed throughout the Kingdoms.

Yet he still received these updates, nightly, from Ordran. That night, his mind wandered to the evening's events. He played the moment before entering Lady Leanna over and over in his head, feeling his loins stir with the memory of lust he felt towards his mother. This had never happened to him before, though he had been in similar proximity a dozen times already. Oddly, he felt more curious than concerned.

The door between their chambers opened and his mother stepped in. The King motioned and the Queen joined to move the two men in the corner of the room. She dismissed Ordran as he finished updating them about a noblewoman in the reaches of their Empire whose husband had recently died.

"How are you, my King?" The Queen asked as Ordran stepped out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

"I am fine, mother," the King replied. "Ready for this tour to conclude so we may return home."

"We have but one court left to visit, it will conclude soon enough," the Queen said. "But I meant tonight. You seemed to be lacking your normal zeal for the ceremony."

"The ceremony," the King said. "It's all ridiculous, following the steps like a choreographed dancer. It was enjoyable at the outset, but the practiced ritual bores me. I excitedly await the days when the acts of my bedroom are not decided before I enter."

"Who says they are so decided now?"

The King looked up from his wine, a child just told the world is not as it seems.

"Ordran tells me tradition dictates --"

"Ordran may tell you what previous Kings have done," the Queen said. "He may tell you what is expected of you. But you are the King. Your actions are tradition themselves."

She stepped around the table, propping herself up to sit in front of her son. Her legs were hanging down, the tips of her bare toes just supporting her against the cold stone floor. Her short nightgown rode up, revealing her smooth thighs and, nearly, the pleasure between her legs.

"The only tradition that matters is you giving them an heir," she said. "There are a great many ways you can do that."

The King did his best to keep his eyes on hers, or his wine, yet they drifted down to her bosom pressing up against her gown, her ass pressing against his table, her legs casually dropped on either side of him. He would not have to lean back far to see the center of his thoughts, what he could not stop desiring.

"You need to understand that simple truth, my son -- you are the King," she said. "You may take what you want, from who you want, when you want it."

"I am the King," he said, absently.

"You are."

"I may take what you want."

"It is your right."

"I may take who I like."

"And they will consider themselves lucky."

"Whoever I like?" the King asked, placing a hand firmly on his mother's thigh and tracing a thumb towards her warmth.

"Whoever you are willing to take," the Queen replied, pressing towards him until his hand brushed against her sex and he could feel how ready she remained.

Entega held his mother's eye for a moment, considering the possibilities in front of him. It had been made clear to him from the start that this was an option -- he would need to choose who would bring his own heir into this world eventually, and it would need to be a member of the Royal Family.

HIs choice would be incredibly important, the woman bearing the heir to the Empire gaining unparalleled power and control, second only to his own. Was his mother scheming here, planting the seed and using her position to gain his favor?

It was the first time in two generations that a male had been born to the Royal line. His Great-Great Grandfather, King Triva, had born only women. His eldest, Entega's Grandmother, had too born no males.

His mother pressed forward slightly again, bringing his thumb closer to cover it in her wet. She rocked up and down, helping him find the center of her pleasure as her breathing intensified. Still she held his gaze, inviting him to decide what came next.

She, like her mother, had married outside of the Royal bloodline to secure an alliance from a powerful House. Entega's father had died years ago, leaving little impact on him as he had grown. There were aunts and uncles and cousins on that side of the family, but they mattered little in the grand scheme of things.

Though as his mother grinded up against him, Entega's thoughts wandered momentarily. He had always known a choice would come between the women in his Royal family -- his Aunt, older sister, and cousins -- but was there fun to be had with his non-Royal kin?

He was brought back to the present by his mother's hand on his cheek. He looked up and was pulled back into the present, remembering he was the first ruling man to oversee the Empire in half a century.

Yet still he felt powerless to bureaucracy and tradition.

The King pulled back his hand, and looked away. He pushed his chair and stood, but before he could move away the Queen reached out and grabbed his hardening cock through his pants.

"You are the fucking King," she said. "You are strong when you show strength. Fuck the girl however you want, just leave them an heir. The rest of the tour is yours to do as you please."

She removed her hand and leaned back, spreading her legs wide to allow the King a view of his birthplace.

"With whomever you please, your Grace."

His entire life he had been told he was the King, his desires were designed to be reality, the world would be what he made it. Yet he had been treated in no such manner, stifled and restricted by tradition and expectation. There had never been much room for him to act as he wished, solely for him to act as a King should.

A small voice, one that had lingered in the back of his head since he was a boy, spoke up. You are the King, it said.

He moved forward and brought his hand to feel his mothers warmth again, so wet and waiting for him. His fingers slid up and down, massaging her lips and teasing her precious opening. He found her clitoris without guidance this time, leaning forward and feeling the little mound bounce back and forth as his fingers played overtop.

The Queen leaned in, trying to bring her mouth to meet her son's, but the King grabbed the back of her hair and roughly pulled it back. She let out a guttural moan as the beautiful pain swirled and melted into the pleasure she was feeling. One good thing he had learned the night of his coronation.

Remembering that evening, the King knelt, hooking an arm beneath each leg and pulling his mother to the edge of the table. Gently, Entega tasted his mother, playing his tongue along the sides of her opening, feeling her lips in his mouth and gently kissing the bulging mound of pleasure at the top.

He looked up and met his mother's eyes, wide and pleading, as he smiled and licked her length. He stopped at the top of her, feeling her clit and massaging it with his tongue, flicking up and down as the Queen went rigid and began to shake.

Something came over him, then. A feeling of power, driven by desire that had been laying in wait for as long as he could remember. He was the King, who would stand between him and his hungers?

He stood again, bringing his hand to play with the Queen in one fluid motion, her eyes beginning to flutter as delight began to overcome her.

"I can take what I want?"

"Yes, my King."

He reached up with his other hand and ripped the bodice of her dress, revealing her beautiful breasts. He took one in his hand, feeling the intoxicating weight, finding the small, pointed nipple. He bent and took it in his mouth, biting down as he slid a finger inside his mother.

"Say it again," he said, his mouth pressed against her breast.

"You can take what you want, my son," she said through a high pitched moan. "Whatever you want is yours."

"It is mine," he said, sliding a second finger inside and finding the apex of pleasure.

The King began to move quickly, throwing his arm up and down as his mother's body tensed in on itself and began to shake. He brought his hand up to his mother's neck, wrapping it around her throat squeezing the sides as a low, guttural moan began somewhere deep inside her.

"Look at me," he said.

She met his eyes, though she was somewhere else entirely. They began to flutter, and she failed to hold his gaze, letting them roll back into her head. Crescendo after crescendo of overwhelming satisfaction rolled over her, and she lost control as her shaking limbs began to move about, knocking the King's wine and throwing the glass across the room.

She shook and screamed -- was it true pleasure or a show for the ears no doubt listening in on them? -- her body hunched in as the outward display fell in on itself, leaving a vacant look in her eyes, a sheen of sweat beading all over her body, and a heaving chest that begged for more air.

The King released her and removed his fingers, keeping his hand between her legs as she panted, resting her head against his chest. With his free hand, the King traced lazy circles around her nipples, feeling her chest and enjoying the soft shudders that still flowed through her body.

After a minute, still out of breath with her head resting against the King, his mother spoke.

"Do you know why our family rules the known world?" she asked her son as he gently massaged her swollen nethers.

"Our bloodline is pure," he replied, moving back from her and placing a hand on either thigh, their faces inches apart, "descended from the gods themselves."

"Our bloodline is human," she said, picking up a knife from the table, "descended from a convincing liar."

She took the knife and one of her son's hands in hers, pricking the tip of his index finger and watching as a dot of red formed. The King looked at his mother with a hurt confusion, waiting for her to explain.

"My mother explained it to me once," she said. "We rule because we have always ruled. The church, the military, these heirs you are making, they are all a part of keeping this family strong."

She took his chin in her hand, tilting it to look into his eyes.

"All of that fails if you do. You are the King, and we are as strong as the world thinks you are," she said, bringing his finger to her lips. "Understand your Empire, lead the game the rest of them play, and take what you want."

She closed her mouth around her finger and sucked, playing around it with her tongue as her hands moved to undo the King's pants. He stepped back, removing his hand and placing it on her cheek. Her wet saliva tickled the underside of her jaw.

"Thank you, mother," the King said. "You have helped me greatly tonight."

"I would love to help you more," she purred.

"As would I," the King replied, meaning it. "But the hour is late, and tomorrow is filled."

He brought his other hand up and held her face in both, leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss on his mother's lips. Were it not for his grip, he could feel her pressing forward to draw him in, and the ache between his legs proved difficult to ignore.

Yet he understood this was a delicate moment -- to give in to his most pressing desire would ripple throughout his court, as word would surely get out and the rest of the Royal women would cry foul and wreak havoc.

The court will already know of this night, he thought. What harm could come from a bit more?

But he know that was untrue. No, the moment would come soon enough where he would have to choose, and desperate as he was to feel himself inside of her, to allow her hands and mouth and body to feel and please his own, it was the wrong time. That level of intimacy would cause more problems, and the day was fast approaching when he would be able to experience it without the repercussions.

He guided his mother out of his chambers and into her own, watching her bare behind sway back and forth, her dress still pulled up about her waist. She turned and bid him goodnight, allowing him another look at her bare chest and beautiful face, her neck still red from his hand minutes before.

No sooner had the door closed that the King threw down his pants and fell to the floor, back against the door. He finished himself, needing only a handful of strokes and the lingering feeling of his mother's body pressed against him to find completion.

He lay there, covered in the seed they had traveled the world to spread, and smiled at the thought that soon a day would come when he would be back at court, truly free to take whoever he wanted.

From the other side of the door, the Queen listened as her son grunted and sighed in pleasure, her lips cracking into a coy smile.