Astarte lives up to the origns of her name

Winston looked up at her from where he lay against the cushions, still catching his breath, and the choice settled before he had the words for it. "I want to be on top."

A smirk touched Astarte's mouth and she shifted free, rolling onto her back along the bed with her eyes on him the whole way as he climbed, and his legs, still unsteady from Theana, made it less graceful than he would have liked. By the time he reached her she was settled and waiting, thighs parted to make room, one hand coming to rest against his hip without guiding and the other braced against the cushions. "Then take what is yours, my king."

He guided himself to her and pressed in, and heat met him first, then a slow deliberate resistance that yielded only as far as she chose, so that the head of him slipped inside and her walls closed around him and held with measured force. The sound she made was not quite a moan but the satisfied confirmation of something she had already decided to enjoy, and when her thighs flexed once against his hips and stayed, tightening the grip, he drove deeper. The stretch pulled another breath from her as he sank the rest of the way, until he was seated fully and even the small withdrawal he tried felt contested by the strength holding him in place.

"You feel that, my king." Astarte said, low and a little rough, the breath catching on the end of it. One hand tightened once against his hip. "I will not let you go easily, my king."

She did not. Locked around him, the thighs kept him deep while the heat of her pulsed in slow, deliberate clenches, and up his side slid her free hand to press flat against his ribs with the same message as the grip: stay. The earlier smirk had softened into something hungrier, and she watched his face the whole time, reading it.

"Harder," she said, voice dropping further. "If it pleases you. I want to feel every bit of you."

The next thrust from Winston drove her an inch up the bed before the strength of Astartes hauled him back in. Every stroke brought wet heat clinging and rippling, and up and down went her breasts with the force of it, heavy and unhurried, and he found himself watching.

"Do they please you, my king?" The corner of her mouth lifted. "They move for you."

Words were not needed. Harder, then, into her, the cunt around him gripping on every withdrawal, and through all of it the teasing stayed quiet and certain, her voice never rising above the low register she had used from the start.

"Do not stop," she said, and this time it was not a request. "I can take it. I want to feel you spend your seed inside me, my king."

As Winston's cock thrust into Astartes' tight pussy, he climaxed, and she held him there, taking every throb deep inside. Her breath caught, her thighs squeezed, and before the last of him had left her, she was already rising. Only her grip kept him from falling, and it was enough. He rose with her, off the cushions, until she settled upright in his lap, still sheathed, her breasts now level with his face, lifting with each breath. The heat of their bodies and the scent of their passion filled the air, and every movement was deliberate, every sensation amplified. The sound of their moans and the slick sound of their bodies joining echoed in the room, and he could feel the wetness of her desire as she moved against him. Her grip was firm, her nails digging into his skin as she held him close, and he was lost in the pleasure of her body as she took what was hers.

She did not wait for him to recover. Astarte’s hips began to roll, slow at first, working him through the sensitivity until the ache turned into something useful again. The wet sound of her filled the space as the pace quickened. Nothing in his view but her. The heavy bounce of her breasts rose and fell directly in front of him with every descent that took him deep, close enough to touch if the coordination had been left to reach. It was not. Watching was what remained, and one hand braced against his shoulder while the other held his hip like a man she had bought.

“Look at them, my king,” she said, voice still steady even as her breath roughened. “They are yours to see. Take what you need from me.”

The second climax gathered faster than the first, built on the relentless grip of her and the sight in front of his face. Oversensitive as he was, every flinch became a cue. Up his length she hauled herself and dropped back down with a slap, thighs working, until nothing remained but to lie under her and take the pace she set.

Then the rhythm changed. The even rise and fall broke into something shorter and more urgent, and the clench started before she made a sound. Down she came and stayed, grinding, working herself on him in tight circles while her breath broke against his hair and the noises she made turned raw at the edges. Her hand left his hip for his chest, nails pressing. Above him, her eyes shut and her mouth fell open, all that steady composure finally gone.

It took her in a shudder that ran from her thighs through her stomach. Small desperate rocks rode it out on him, her cunt clenching in waves that dragged him along. When his own broke she bore down hard, milking him in strong deliberate pulls while he spilled into her again. Only then did the motion ease. Still seated, still holding him inside her, she settled her weight and let her breath even out, blue eyes gone warm as she looked down.

A low chuckle broke the quiet that had settled over the bed. Hippolyta, it seemed, was amused.

"My lord husband is certainly energetic." Hippolyta leaned over him from the side and kissed him, it was a brief kiss but she took her time like she had all the time in the world, while the former Queen's free hand slid down between their bodies to where he was still buried in Astarte. One steady pull drew him free. Astarte made a small sound at the loss and tipped sideways onto the cushions, legs sliding loose, her chest already slowing toward sleep. The room smelled of sex, and of the oil.

Then Hippolyta looked past Winston to the guards waiting at the chamber door. "Take Theana," she said. "See her fitted for her new gear before she wakes."

Two of them moved at once. Careful hands gathered the sleeping woman, red cloaks shifting as they carried her from the bed and out through the flap. The ache still sat deep in his body as he watched them go, and when he turned his head toward Hippolyta the question came out rough.

"New gear?" he asked. "What gear?"

Hippolyta only misked and kissed him once more.