King Quinton invites you to join his travels.

King Quinton can't hold back his laughter.

You join in, falling to your knees by the side of the bed. Your wife is still quivering with her climax. The king is laughing from between your wife's raised legs, the dust from Lily's mop mingling with your pearly sperm on his buttocks. You're laughing until the tears run down your cheeks. It hurts that Quinton has not just taken your daughters Molly, Millie, and Mandy -- a fair exchange for your ennoblement -- but couldn't keep off your wife. It hurts that your wife was eager to receive him and fulfill her lust with him. But the hand of fate put Lily's mop in your angry grasp in place of a sword or axe and saved you both, saved you all three. So you laugh.

The King rises from the bed. You freeze in place, not wanting to compound the disaster by any further rash action. The King takes his half-hard prick in hand and taps it on your shoulder, then the other, then the first.

"By my power as King I create you Knight Companion of the Blade and Sheath," Quinton says. "Exempt from the law of lèse-majesté, you may bare your feet, your fundament, and your futter-stick at will before your sovereign."

You swallow. The royal jester had the same privileges. But it was the most direct way Quinton could save the scene. The white laces of sperm splashed across the royal fundament were otherwise a deadly insult. You cough. "Your Majesty," you say in acknowledgment. You quake with hesitation, your fury abated and your lust spent for the moment.

"Rise, Companion," he says, and draws you to your feet. "You must now accompany me on my journey. Join the cavalcade. You at least have not been cheating your tithes. We may find that we need to extract payment in kind from those noble estates whose lords have not been so honest."

"Your Majesty," you say again.

"We leave in the morning," King Quinton says. "You may bring one person to attend you."