(One-Shot) Isabella's Queensguard: The Beginning (Slow burn, Freeuse, Gangbang, All holes)[UPDATED]

The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder as Isabella stepped off the armored vehicle. Dressed in muted military fatigues tailored for her slight frame, she blended in, though the confident set of her jaw and the unmistakable air of command gave her away. A black beret sat perched on her long, dark hair, held back in a tight braid. Behind her, her personal bodyguards, nicknamed the Queensguard for their function, fanned out, their weapons held ready, their sharp eyes scanning the horizon. They had been recruited personally by Isabella, chosen from among the best and most brutal soldiers available. Most had criminal records prior to being conscripted, but their fierce loyalty and brutality in field had rendered that irrelevant.

The frontline was a tense, desolate strip of land nestled at the edge of the Montesoran jungles, a far cry from the polished halls of the Palacio del Sol Isabella had grown up in. Trenches cut through the dirt like jagged scars, dotted with sandbags and the weary faces of soldiers who had seen too much and slept too little.

General Serrano awaited her near a makeshift command post, his broad frame encased in body armor, a cigar clenched between his teeth. His weathered face broke into a faint smile as he saw her approach. “Presidente,” he said, inclining his head respectfully. “You honor us with your visit.”

“I’m not here for honors, General,” Isabella replied tersely. “I’m here to see what's the hold up. It's been a month since the offensive started, yet we have barely advanced."

General Serrano exhaled a plume of smoke, his expression hardening at her words. "With respect, Presidente, this terrain is no place for quick victories. The rebels know this jungle better than anyone. Every inch we gain costs a gallon of blood."

Isabella’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the grim surroundings, her mind racing with the implications of the stalemate. She glanced at a map pinned to the command post's wall, its surface marked with red lines denoting enemy territory. Montesoro's dense jungles had always been a double-edged sword: a natural fortress for the country and a nightmare for invading forces—now hers.

"And morale?" she asked, her voice steely.

"Fractured," Serrano admitted. "The men are tired, and whispers of desertion are growing. They’re brave, but bravery only goes so far when you’re fighting ghosts. The guerillas strike with the speed of lightning, then vanish into the jungle like smoke."

Isabella stepped closer to the map, her gloved fingers tracing the red lines thoughtfully. "We cannot afford this to drag on, General. Every day this war continues is another day the people doubt my ability to lead. And my enemies knows it."

Serrano grunted in agreement but said nothing, watching as she straightened and turned to face her Queensguard. "I want the soldiers to see their Presidente standing with them, not issuing orders from behind palace walls. I'll walk the trenches, speak with the men personally."

"With respect, that’s a risk you can’t afford," Serrano said, his voice firm. "They have snipers, and the jungle is crawling with rebels. You’d be a prime target."

Isabella’s gaze hardened. "If I don’t take risks, how can I ask them to? Arrange it, General. Discreetly. My Queensguard will ensure my safety."

Serrano hesitated for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "As you command."

Hours later, Isabella walked through the muddy trenches, her boots sinking into the wet earth as she passed rows of weary soldiers. Their reactions varied: some straightened and saluted with surprised respect, while others merely stared, their hollow eyes betraying their exhaustion. Isabella stopped occasionally, speaking to the men in low tones, asking their names, their hometowns, their families. She listened as they spoke of hardships, of lost comrades, of the suffocating fear that came with every skirmish.

At one point, she knelt beside a young soldier, barely older than eighteen, who was cradling a bandaged arm. "What’s your name?" she asked gently.

"Mateo, Presidente," he replied, his voice trembling slightly.

"Mateo," she said, her tone soft but resolute, "you’ve done more for this country than most will in a lifetime. When this is over, Montesoro will remember your sacrifice. I promise you that."

The boy’s eyes welled with tears, and he nodded, clutching his rifle tighter.

Behind her, one of her Queensguard, a burly man named Alvarez, leaned toward her. "This is dangerous, ma’am. We need to move."

Isabella didn’t respond immediately, her eyes fixed on the distant jungle where the enemy lay hidden. Finally, she straightened, her voice low but firm. "Danger or not, they need to see me. They need to believe this fight is worth it."

But as they turned a corner in the trenches, a sharp crack split the air—a sniper’s bullet. It hit the sandbags just inches from her head, spraying dirt into her eyes, blinding her. Her Queensguards sprang into action, forming a protective shield around her as Alvarez barked orders into his radio. The other soldiers dove for cover, their eyes wide with fear and confusion.

"I don't have visual!" One of her Queensguard, a sharpshooter, shouted. He raised his rifle, squinting through the scope, searching for the source of the bullet. Another shot rang out from the jungle, and Isabella heard a dull thud as it found its target. The sharpshooter fell to the ground, his face contorted in pain.

"He's got a vantage point, higher than us," Alvarez shouted. "If we move, he'll pick us off!"

Alvarez cursed under his breath, his eyes darting between the wounded soldier and the panicked faces of the other men in the trench. He grabbed Isabella's arm and pulled her behind a stack of crates, motioning for the other guards to follow. They obeyed, huddling together in the narrow space.

"I'll distract him, draw his fire. Then you run," Alvarez said. His voice was low, his gaze intense.

Isabella shook her head, her heart hammering in her chest. "No. I won't have you sacrifice yourself for me. For my mistake."

Alvarez's jaw tightened. "That's why I'm here, ma'am. To protect you. Now go, before it's too late."

Without waiting for her response, Alvarez jumped to his feet, raising his rifle and firing at the jungle. The other guards took advantage of the diversion, rushing her across the **** trench and into a nearby bunker. They piled in, guns trained on the door, their eyes wide with adrenaline.

Outside, the shooting had stopped, and an eerie silence hung in the air. Isabella leaned against the wall, her heart still pounding, her eyes stinging from the dust. The image of the fallen sharpshooter, his blood staining the dirt, flashed through her mind, and she closed her eyes, fighting back tears.