A night of dreams

In the evening you watch TV and then head to bed. Your sleep is filled with dreams.

You sit in a large hall, eerily familiar, constructed from your memories of Game of Thrones. You’re sitting on a throne but glancing down you see it’s not the Iron Throne. No, this throne is not composed of melted swords but of mangled and merged dildos. No chance of cutting yourself on this throne. Which is just as well, because you’re bare chested, clad only in an inadequate loincloth, from which the tip of your penis peeks out.

A piece of cloth that grows even more inadequate when you look around the hall.

To your right stands Abigail, wearing a one-piece bikini, two thin straps of blue cloth that descend from her shoulders, just covering her nipples, to merge around her groin. Her smooth legs, her flat stomach, the valley of her cleavage are all exposed. On the right strap there is a symbol embroidered on in gold. You initially think it’s a designer logo, but no, it’s the symbol of the hand of the king.

Beyond her sits Krystal. She’s wrapped in yellow robes that cover everything but flutter in the lightest breeze. Each shift reveals the pale flesh beneath. You imagine the whole outfit would be whisked away by an inopportune eddy if it wasn’t weighed down by the chain around her neck. This chain is composed of multiple links, each of a different metal; gold, silver, aluminium, iron, all highly polished, and each link not a circle but a more suggestive shape, the shape of a cock and two balls. And the frenulum of one link penetrates one of the balls of the next one, wedged in so that the chain doesn’t unwrap.

Just to your left, on a step down, stands Blair, wearing a white cloak and what could never be called armour. It is composed of a breast plate that only just covers her breasts, and a leather miniskirt, beneath which you can sneak a sight of her panties. Metal grieves, metal vambraces, don’t overcome the lack of other components, leaving most of her pale skin exposed. Her helmet sits on top of her head and covers none of her beautiful face and has an opening in the rear to allow her blond ponytail to cascade through.

Just to your left stands Layla. She at least, appears fully clad. Her robe, though, is tight, and leaves nothing to the imagination. All her curves are visible under the dark robe. Her breasts are further emphasised by the large, leather-bound book she hugs to her stomach, that prop them up. Embroidered on her robe is a mockingbird.

{if Stella > 0}Beyond her stands Stella, another one in robes, although not as tight fitting. Or at least she has less prominent assets. Her robes are blue, and on her shoulder sits a small tit, chirping into her ear. She leans in and listens.{endif}

Two steps down, just in front of Layla stands Anissa. Her grey robe is inadequate for coverage. It’s so thin you can see the skin beneath, the darkness of her areola, the prominence of her vagina. Her coverage of the cloth over her breasts is further weakened by the weight of a golden cross that presses the cloth into her dusky skin.

Filling the hall is your audience, the school. School girls, most anonymous, some you recognise. They wear the school uniform, but one doctored by a pervert. The skirts are miniskirts. The blouses are short-sleeved, and tight, all tied up beneath the breasts, to reveal pale stomachs, some flat, some chubby, some muscled.

“Come forward and swear fealty to your new king,” Abigail shouts.

The girls arrange themselves into a queue and one by one step forward. First to come is Kelly. She kneels before you, her green eyes never slipping from your loincloth. “I swear fealty to my one and only lord.” Then she leans forward and fishes out your already hardening cock. She leans in and kisses its head. She stands and steps aside.

To be replaced by Ellie. Who repeats the kneeling, repeats the words, repeats the kiss. Then Brianna. And the girls carry on. Each one kneeling. Each one swearing you are their one and only lord. Each one kissing the head of your cock. The kisses are varied. Some are tender. Some are deep. Some are more a suck than kiss. Some are hesitant. All kneel. All swear. All kiss.

And it feels like it goes on forever. The women on the dais have watched all this in wonder. Their hands have descended to their groins. They are all rubbing their clits. Some, like Anissa, surreptitiously. Some, like Krystal, openly and with clear lust.

And Kelly is back to swear fresh allegiance. Another round of kneeling, swearing and kissing. Only this time her kisses are more passionate, and they take more of your length. And Ellie is the same. And Brianna is the same. And the entire school is the same. Kiss after kiss. Suck after suck. An endless rotation of teen beauty come to worship your phallus, come to worship you.

Until you can’t take it anymore. And you wake, with hardest hardon you’ve ever had.