Blacking out.

You're not entirely sure when you begin to lose consciousness, only that it's somewhere in your third glass. You slump to the side in the comfortable armchair you'd been seated in, the left side of your body gradually becoming as stiff and immovable as much of the right is.

"Oh, would you look at that?" the Chancellor chuckles. "Perhaps we overestimated King Edward's tolerance. Or underestimated the strength of the spirit."

You try to respond, but only manage to trail a string of drool onto the arm of your chair. As the room begins spinning, you try to **** yourself to your feet, only to crash to the hard stone floor.

-

"Are you completely fucking sure about this, Grégoire?" the voice is the only thing that registers to you, sounding swimmy and distant.

“I'm not sure of anything lately, Camille.” Bistodeau responds. “This seems like the best choice of a bad bunch.”

Your body aches. You guess you had your rendezvous with the floor to thank for that. Only now the surface under your back is softer, more welcoming.

Still unable to move, to even open your eyes, you put that from your mind, and focus on the voices.

“All I know is, the chances of Pierre giving you a son are slim to none.” the Chancellor whispers. “The cretin's barely touched you since his illness.”

“I never thought I'd be disappointed by that.” the queen scoffs.

“Now, I'm fairly certain that ultimately, I could rein in her worst impulses, but the realm has a brighter future without Madeleine on the throne.”

“As do we both.” Camille quips.

“Indeed. Of course, the child need only be his son in the eyes of the world.” Bistodeau reminds her.

“And if he's really the son of another kingdom's ruler, why that's just another potential card to play.” Camille echoes.

“Do you have your fertility amulet?” the Chancellor asks

“Of course.” Camille responded. “I've been wearing it the entire time. Should be the only thing I'm wearing in a few minutes.”

“Magnifique.” the chancellor responds.

“And you're sure he won't wake?”

“Give me a little credit, Your Excellency. Do you know how difficult it was, selecting a poison that would immobilise our quarry, while still allowing us to inoculate ourselves from its effects? You don't get to my station in life without learning a little... practical application of the natural sciences.”

“But to answer your question, yes. The dosage I gave our Itherian friend means he'll be dead to the world for a good few hours. And should have no memory of this squalid little affair from after he took his first drink.”

"Would that he were not the only one." Camille responds

Either Bistodeau had erred when it came to poison you, or your half-demonic physiology had thwarted his plans.

With a great deal of exertion, you're able to open your eyes. Blearily, you see your body, stock still, laid out on Camille's bed.

Chancellor Bistodeau and queen Camille are back in the parlour, too engrossed in each other and their little scheme to pay any attention to you.

“Well,” Camille remarks. “Time to get this over with.”

As the conspirators venture towards the bedroom, you screw your eyes shut.

“Fuck off, Bistodeau. We may be in on this together, but if you think you get to watch...” Camille says sternly.

“...Of course, Milady.” the bureaucrat responds. You hear him move away.

“And if I hear you crouched behind that door, wanking, I'll have you thrown to the spiders.” Camille assures him. Well, she and Madeleine had one thing in common, you supposed...

You hear the bedroom door close behind Camille, hear her take a few hesitant steps towards you.

“Edward... Edward...” she calls out softly, waiting to see if you stir.

You make no such effort. Hells, even if you could move anything beyond your eyelids right now, to reveal you were conscious and had heard Camille and Bistodeau's treasonous plan would be the height of folly.

After a few moments, the queen hesitantly draws closer. You hear the rustling of her fine gown, as she begins to undress.

Opening your eyes the tiniest fraction, you take in the sight of Camille divesting herself of her clothes, revealing her firm, smooth nakedness to you. Gods, you catch yourself thinking, you can only hope you'll have a woman like her close at hand when you're King Pierre's age. As she returns her attention to you once more, you surreptitiously screw your eyes shut.

Luckily, you've had to hide a great deal of your identity and predilections for just about half your life, so playing dead is certainly manageable.

The look on the queen's face indicating she at least finds her actions appropriately distasteful, Camille reaches into your trousers. She strokes your cock for a few seconds, before taking it out.

Despite the precarity of your situation, you find yourself growing hard just as readily as you would had you fallen into Camille's bed of your own volition.

“Right.” Camille exhales, steeling herself for what lay ahead. “You can do this.”

Clambering onto the bed, Camille straddles you, bringing her sex down onto your eagerly awaiting cock.

You decide to sneak another glimpse. The golden-haired royal is picking up a decent pace atop you, her gaze averted, naturally uncomfortable about what she's found herself doing.

A certain amulet of carved wood hangs around Camille's neck, just about the only adornment remaining on her. Surely that had to be the fertility charm Bistodeau had referred to. You'd heard of such things, but never encountered one yourself. Rumour had it they were most popular with the continent's various “noble-hunters”, women of loose morals and great allure. Evidently Camille had decided to employ one to boost her chances of conceiving.

“Come on...” Camille urges you (evidently she's a talker), tightening her grip on your torso and intensifying her efforts to reap your seed. “Useless fucking cripple...”

Much as you'd like to show Camille exactly how foolish her remark was, exactly what you were capable of, there was the whole playing dead thing to to consider. That and you were still largely immobilised.

Camille is persistent, exacting, and if not quite as tight as her adoptive daughter, certainly the feeling of her inner walls squeezing your cock is far from unpleasant. Before too long, you find yourself cumming, your body surrendering to Camille, regardless of what your mind thought. To feel the pleasure of such a release without any of the usual passion is... disorienting, to say the least.

“...Finally.” Camille whispers to herself, taking your seed then clambering off you. The queen gingerly lowers herself onto her back by your side, laying in such a way as to promote conditions favourable to conception.

After a brief spell of a few minutes, Camille rises once more, only to lean over the bed. Extending her tongue, lapping away at your flaccid cock and testicles, doing her best to erase any trace of what had transpired.

With that taken care of, Camille makes you decent once again, then gathers up her gown. As she steps back into the elaborate garment, you risk one last look at the queen's shapely backside. Even after everything that had happened, you found yourself craving a more... involved tryst with the older woman.

Camille leaves the room, seeking out her co-conspirator once again. Minutes pass without her return. Even as you feel the capacity for movement returning to your body, the healthy parts of it at least, you remain stock still. You had to bide your time, make them believe you were really as susceptible to their concoction as they believed.

You remain as you are for a couple of hours, before deciding enough time has passed that you could get away with “stirring.”

“Ughhhh....” you groan, shifting a little on the bed, but making no move to rise. Of course, your discomfort was not entirely faked. The poison wearing off had left uncomfortable, just not to the extent the Sinnabarrovians expected.

“Your Majesty!” Chancellor Bistodeau exclaims, rushing in, a little too quickly. “You're awake, wonderful!”

“W-What happened?” you say, letting your eyes flicker open. “Gods, my head...”

You clutch at your brow. You were hardly practised at these deceptions, but you wagered you were already more convincing than the Chancellor.

“You had a little too much to drink.” Camille tells you, standing in the doorway. “After you blacked out, Grégoire carried you to my bed."

“Gods, how much of a fool did I make of myself?” you ask, feigning regret.

“No more than one usually does.” Camille quips. “Truth be told, you were out of it pretty quick.”

“Would Your Majesty like anything to deal with his discomfort?” Bistodeau asks.

“A little hair of the dog, perhaps?” Camille smirks.

“Gods no...” you respond, feigning a wretch. “Just... help back to my quarters, perhaps?”

“Of course, King Edward.” Bistodeau responds. Leaning on him, you depart, leaving Camille potentially quick with your bastard child, or Pierre's true-born heir, however she would attempt to spin it.

Arriving at your quarters, Bistodeau stays with you until you tire of his prattling and dismiss him. As the door closes behind him, you drop the act, and stand up to your full height, your head clear, your mind already racing, thinking of ways to deal with the... unique situation that has just presented itself to you.