Leave early

Eleanor backed away from the bed, the flickering lamplight painting golden skin and shadows across the tangled bodies before her. The air was thick with warmth, musk, and tension — an atmosphere heavy with unspoken dominance, desire, and indifference.

She moved to the door. Turned the handle. Locked.

Her fists pounded against it.

“Let me out!” she cried, voice strained and cracking. “Please—this is a mistake! I wasn’t meant to—!”

Behind her, the soft cadence of breath quickened, sheets rustled, and a whispered moan curled through the air. Eleanor’s shouting clashed against the sensual harmony building behind her, like a stone tossed into still water.

The two women ignored her.

On the bed, the dark-haired woman had her thigh pressed between her lover’s legs, her fingers mapping soft skin, trailing lower with expert ease. She kissed her slowly—a kind of kiss that made time stretch—and her lover arched with a quiet gasp, lips parted in anticipation.

"You're close," she whispered against her mouth, her fingers slipping lower, sliding between slick warmth. "Let go for me."

A ragged breath, trembling thighs, and then—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Eleanor's **** pounding shattered the rhythm like glass.

The woman on bottom groaned—not in pleasure, but pure frustration, her brows knitting, the pleasure spiraling too far to be reeled back in.

“Damn it,” she hissed, shoving her head back into the pillows, chest rising and falling. “She ruined it again.”

The dark-haired woman exhaled through her nose, a slow, controlled breath, before turning her head sharply toward the door.

“Shut that bitch up.”

Without hesitation, she rose from the bed, every movement deliberate, graceful. Her body was toned, powerful beneath soft curves, a predator cloaked in satin.

Eleanor’s back was turned, her fists still hammering the wood.

She didn’t hear her coming.

Didn’t see the crack of a fist slamming into the side of her face.

Stars exploded behind her eyes, and her knees gave way. The world spun, then vanished into black.

She collapsed in a heap against the floor, bare, limp, and silent at last.

The woman stood over her, expression unreadable, her knuckles flexing.

Behind her, her lover sighed contentedly and spread her legs again.

“Now, where were we?”

The woman with obsidian hair returned to the bed like a shadow slipping back into its rightful place. Her lover—flushed, panting—opened her arms in invitation, a soft whimper escaping her lips.

“Took you long enough,” she whispered.

“I hate being interrupted,” came the reply, smooth as silk and sharp as glass.

Their bodies met again in a tangle of limbs, of longing reignited. Soft moans replaced the harsh thuds of Eleanor’s fists. The freckled woman arched beneath her, her little stone pebbles standing firm beneath warm breath and grazing fingertips.

The dark-haired woman trailed kisses down the curve of her lover’s breast, pausing only to swirl her tongue, teasing, letting her savor the ache between sensation and release.

“Mmm… don’t stop again,” the freckled woman whispered, her voice trembling. Her hips rose with slow, hungry rhythm, seeking more.

“I won’t,” came the promise, husky and low.

Fingers trailed downward, down the curve of her stomach to the soft curls below—until she reached the heat of her sweet, pulsing kitty. The dark-haired woman exhaled against her lover’s skin, feeling her twitch and sigh beneath her touch.

She stroked her slowly, deliberately, the way only a lover who knows every flutter and pause of a body can. Each movement, each kiss, each gasp was poetry etched in skin. The room swelled with the wet sound of passion and the shiver of pleasure curling deeper.

The freckled woman writhed, her eyes fluttering shut, her hands twisting into the sheets as her thighs trembled.

The freckled woman’s breath hitched as her thighs trembled, pleasure rising like a tide she could no longer resist. Her lover hovered above her, eyes locked with hers, fingers never relenting—slow, deep strokes that curled heat through her like a storm held just at bay.

Her toes curled, her back arched, and she whimpered with desperation.

“Please… please…”

The dark-haired woman leaned down, her breath hot against her ear.

“Not until you say it.”

The freckled woman blinked through the haze, lips parted, trembling.

“Say what?” she gasped, her voice cracking beneath the weight of nearing climax.

A slow, wicked smile curled her lover’s lips.

“Call me Mistress.”

Fingers moved faster now, dragging her right to the brink again, and again—only to slow. Deny. Tease.

The other woman whimpered, gripping her shoulders as her body shook beneath the rhythmic torment.

“Mistress,” she finally gasped, the word trembling off her tongue like a prayer.

“Louder.”

“M-Mistress!”

And with that, the dark-haired beauty didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Her fingers plunged in with slow, masterful purpose, her palm grinding upward until the freckled woman’s cry shattered into the room—a ****, choked moan of surrender as she came undone under her Mistress’s touch.

Her entire body spasmed, thighs quaking as the release finally flooded through her, every muscle giving in at once. Her head fell back with a breathless sob of relief.

And this time—finally—nothing stopped her.

Mistress smiled, triumphant. She kissed her lover’s trembling lips, slow and claiming, the kind of kiss that sealed ownership without words.

Their bodies melted into the sheets, slick and satisfied. One dominant, one breathless and shaking, both glowing with the heat of the moment.

From the corner, Eleanor stirred with a soft groan, still half-lost in unconsciousness.

Mistress didn’t look at her yet. She simply whispered into her lover’s hair, voice low and amused.

“I wonder how long she’ll take before she’s calling me Mistress too.”

The room still pulsed with the heat of passion, the flickering lanterns casting golden light across tangled sheets and damp, glistening skin. The scent of arousal still hung thick in the air as Mistress traced lazy circles along her lover’s inner thigh, lips curling in a satisfied smirk.

The freckled woman lay curled beside her, flushed and breathless, eyelids heavy. Still basking in the afterglow, she let her fingers gently roam over Mistress’s stomach as she murmured,

“Yes… sadly, she may not, my love.”

She gestured toward the **** figure on the floor—Eleanor, curled like a wounded animal in the shadows. “She is to belong to the herbalist… the Queen’s son.”

Mistress clicked her tongue, her fingers playing with a strand of hair as she studied the woman they had so easily silenced.

“Awww,” she sighed with a mock pout. “I almost feel bad for knocking her out now…” She tilted her head. “Damn. Should we try to help her up?”

The freckled woman gave a breathy laugh, half-dazed and glowing with pleasure.

“Yehh… you get right on that.”

Mistress’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight. She reached over and delivered a playful but firm spank across her lover’s backside.

“Wake your ass up.”

The other woman yelped softly, biting her lip and grinning.

“Sorry, Mistress…” she whispered, giggling, before both of them shifted out of the bed, their movements languid, feline.

Together, they approached Eleanor, who groaned softly as they knelt beside her.

“Come on, little stray,” Mistress said in a teasing tone, sliding an arm beneath Eleanor’s shoulders. Her lover mirrored the movement, lifting the woman with surprising tenderness between them.

Eleanor stirred, her eyes fluttering open for just a second, only to close again as they eased her onto the bed.

The silence didn’t last. A knock echoed sharply against the chamber door.

A guard’s voice cut through:

“The Queen requests this one be cleaned and sent to her son. You two—get on it.”

Mistress stood, naked and proud, her eyes sharp. “Of course,” she purred, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

They wasted no time. The freckled woman fetched a basin of warm water while Mistress prepared cloths, herbs, and oils.

Steam filled the room. Eleanor lay ****, limp in their arms as they bathed her gently. The dirt from the pits was washed away, revealing pale skin marked by bruises and rawness.

Fingers moved with practiced care, cleansing her with warmth, even if their eyes held no affection. It was duty—elevated by the seductive grace of their touch, yet bound in obedience.

Mistress leaned close to Eleanor’s ear and whispered, “You belong to him now. But if you ever come back to me… you’ll learn to say Mistress properly.”

And with that, the Queen’s gift was prepared. Washed. Tamed.

Ready to be delivered.

OOC:(You got knocked the hell out, sorry you selected this path. Dont worry you didnt die, you will wake up soon....maybe....BUT I respect your decision...This however has a future consequence just like joining them did. Both paths for now will continue with the chapter (Meeting the Prince) which continues in the join me path)