Morning Wood

Light was already across the bed when sleep let him go, and three women were standing at the foot of it.

For a heartbeat the gold and the blue cloaks made them yesterday’s pair. Then the faces held. Blonde, all three, the same blue eyes and the same red mouth, the same line of the cheek, and only the hair changed between them: cropped close on the one who stood above the others, waved to the shoulder on the next, shorter still and shut under a helm on the last. Sisters, or near enough that someone had chosen them to be seen together.

She took the look because there was nowhere else for it to land. A helm hung in her fist, a spear lay back across one shoulder, and her head sat so far over the other two that his eyes had to climb past her breasts and her throat before they found her face. Scale covered those breasts, heavier than the ones beside her. A broad band rode her hips above a long fall of cloth, her thighs bare beneath it, and the arm under the spear was built so much larger that the plates on the other two looked slight. They stood down from her. Either of them would still have looked down on him if he had been on his feet.

The woman with the waved hair held her spear upright, rings shifting at her ears when she tipped her head. Dark straps sat low on her hips under a small engraved plate, her cloak open, stomach and thigh left barer than the tallest had allowed. The corner of her mouth lifted. She was watching him come awake, and the moment he understood that, the sheet over his lap drew tight.

Only the third had kept her 'helm' on. A gorget circled her throat, a sword rested in her hand, and her skin ran warmer than the other two, but what held him was the helm itself, framing her eyes while they had shown their faces. She looked at him anyway. Between that look and the smile beside her, the linen stood, and the ache sharpened until he felt it in his stomach.

Hippolyta drew a breath and pushed herself up against his side. Her arm gathered him in, breasts and the warm length of her stomach fitted to him, her thigh crossing his, and she felt what the sheet had done.

“How delightful, my lord husband,” she purred at his ear. “So eager in the morning. Xanthibarqa and Penthascara vetted them for the household. They will attend you at court, and I am enjoying the effect they have had before then.”

The room extended past the foot of the bed, and the Circle still stood at attention. Alkyone stood at the near corner and turned her head toward Hippolyta’s voice. Charis still wore the silver helm, but she set it aside and reached for the leopard at her shoulder. Myrto’s hair was bound high, and her hand, which had been half lifted, went still as she listened. Philomela faced into the room with her blindfold on, farther off than the rest.

“Attend to your king’s manhood,” Hippolyta commanded.

As Wintson had grown accustoemd too it was Alkyone took the first step forward, her hands finding the silver clasps at her shoulders. With a soft, decisive click, the red and white fabric loosened. It didn't simply fall; it was surrendered, dragged slowly down the curve of her breasts until her nipples tightened against the cool air, catching briefly on the sharp line of her stomach before pooling around her feet. She stepped from the heap of cloth, standing tall and unashamed, her gaze locking onto Winston with a challenge that burned in the dim light.

Moving next or well second was Charis, her posture dropping as she discarded her duties along with her armor. She set her helm aside with a soft metallic clink, the sound lost in the sudden heaviness of the room. The leopard-skin tunic at her shoulder was unfastened with a single tug, the garment discarded with an efficiency that suggested she had no use for modesty, only utility. Her thumbs hooked into the simple white tunic that covered her ribs, and she yanked it upward. It rode up past her waist, baring the strong, corded muscle of her abdomen before clearing her head. She shook her dark hair loose, the motion fluid and wild, her body revealing itself in a blur of muscle and skin until the fabric finally snagged and fell away at her ankles.

Myrto moved like she was unwinding a blade from its sheath. Her fingers lifted to the high collar of her cuirass, unclasping the first pin before moving to the next with slow precision. Gold plates parted with a soft chime, revealing the curve of her collarbones, the swell of her breastplates as the armor unpeeled itself from her skin. Beneath it, red fabric peeled away like a second layer of armor, then black pleats that had once framed her hips. When she stepped free, she didn’t shake her hair down—it stayed pulled back, high and severe, but now the strands caught the light as they swung loose around her face. She walked forward without a word, bare shoulders gleaming, until she took her place beside Charis.

The clatter of metal came from the far corner as Philomela unlatched her vambraces, the silver plates sliding free with a sharp click before she let them drop, bare forearms showing where the metal had been, marked faintly at the wrist. Her cloak came off heavier and slower, the deep red fabric slipping from her shoulders and pooling behind her, the line of her collarbones and the upper swell of her breasts left open to the room as she turned to the fastening at her waist. Blindfolded, she found the leather strap by touch, fingers moving along it until her thumb met the buckle and slid the release aside, and the dress loosened, dragging over her breasts as it fell, the weight of them settling free, then down the plane of her stomach and over the flare of her hips, catching briefly at her thighs before she stepped out of it and left it on the floor. She turned her face toward them with the blindfold still in place, nothing else left on her, and stood with her arms at her sides, breath moving her breasts, waiting on them.

Once their armour and clothes were discarded , the room fell quiet. Lamplight caught on bare skin where Winston was accustomed to seeing armor, and the four women made no attempt to disguise the attention they gave him. The cold that had followed them in from outside seemed suddenly irrelevant. What remained was their closeness, their waiting, and the unmistakable fact that every eye in the room was on him.

Charis's mouth remained sealed around the sensitive head of his cock, her tongue flicking and swirling with every upward thrust of his hips. Her hands gripped his thighs tightly, anchoring him in place as she took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate his girth. The wet sounds of her sucking filled the room, mingling with the soft, needy moans that escaped her lips.

On the other side of his shaft, Alkyone's lips worked their way up from the base, her tongue tracing every ridge and vein. She paused at the tip, flicking her tongue across the slit before engulfing it in her hot, velvety mouth. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, the pressure building and releasing with each movement of her lips.

Those osft lips of Chari's stayed closed around the head of Winston’s cock. She drew up and sank, cheeks hollowing on the pull, a break of breath at her nose when her throat opened around him, and Myrto’s tongue worked the underside through every one of those strokes. Lower, Alkyone sucked one ball in slow pulls, tongue flat beneath it, lipstick dragging where her lips moved. Philomela had the other. She could not see the mouth beside hers. She followed the heat of it, licked until her tongue met Alkyone’s on the narrow skin between, and the moan she made went into him.

All that sucking pulled Winston's hips up off the mattress, Charis’s hands clamping on his thighs as her arms braced and her shoulders set, lips staying around him through the rise, and his fist closed in her hair. She sank deeper on the length already in her mouth, throat opening around him. Alkyone answered the jump with a harder suck on the ball she had, and Philomela’s mouth slipped, found the other again, and stayed, sliding against Alkyone’s while both of them pulled. The next draw ran the whole length of what he could feel at once. His stomach pulled tight. A pulse hit the underside of the head. Then another.

Winston’s next thrust drove up hard, and the dam broke. The first pulse flooded Charis’s tongue, a hot, thick rush that she answered with a tight, swallowing suction. The second followed too quickly, forcing a white trail past the corner of her lips to paint her chin. Abandoning her post, Alkyone was there instantly, her tongue tracing the spillage up Charis’s jaw and then down the exposed shaft, seeking the source and teasing at the corner of Charis’s mouth. Beneath them, a low, continuous moan vibrated against Winston’s skin from Philomela, who refused to let go, her grip firm as every desperate jump of his cock wrung another sound from her throat. The final pulse was a weaker flutter. Charis held him until the tremor subsided, then slowly lifted off, a delicate, slick string breaking between her lip and the sensitive head. She swallowed the last of him, her throat working. One final, slow lick cleaned the tip, and then Alkyone remained, her breath a warm presence on the cooling skin.

Ragged breathing broke the silence as Winstons chest rose and fell in shallow pieces. His hand was a clenched knot on Hippolyta’s waist, and she held him tighter in response, a silent anchor in the sudden stillness. None of the four moved, their heads bowed like worshippers at a spent altar.

Winston wanted nothing more than to take each of them. The impulse was a fire in his blood. But even as his gaze roamed over them, Hippolyta’s plan held him fast. What had just happened, this hungry act of devotion, was not a detour. It was the first foothold of her design.

They had treated motherhood as a weakness, a softening that would leave a queen vulnerable. He had seized that notion and would turn it into the bedrock of his house. In eight months, if Hippolyta’s vision held, there would be a nursery full of his children, and these four would be its very foundation. The night watch over the cots. The feeding when their queens were called to council. He would set the milk upon them by command, binding them to the cry of a hungry child as law itself. They would hold them, watch them stand, and one day, be called ‘mother.’

He would not fuck them. He would not put a child in them. Not for beauty, not for the loyal-"bedding" their rank already demanded, not for an offered body born of obligation. Only when the nursery had forged a bond that an order could not. Only when one of them came to him not as a guard, but as a woman, and asked for a daughter of her own or a son, and truly meant it.

Until then, they were guards and nursemaids. The taste of him was a promise and a denial, a flavor designed to make them crave a seed they would not receive within them for a very long time.

Winston was still on the four at the centre of the room when a voice from the foot of it cut across the quiet, richer than the long listening had prepared him for, and he remembered the sisters were there.

“Such an honour it is for those three traitors to receive our king’s seed.”

He looked toward her. The sound made the forgetting difficult to keep. There was a depth to it that seemed wasted on ordinary speech, and he found himself wondering what it would become if she ever sang.

The tallest sister gave her a sidelong look. “They are Penitents, sister. This act itself is the penance, and it was the Regent who invoked the form it should take.”

“Peace, sister,” the first answered. Amusement touched her mouth without diminishing the longing in her eyes. “I only said their penance is an honour. There are worse ways to repent.”

That drew the third, the one whose had the lognest hair but not long hair as she watched Winston with considerably less restraint than either sister. “Of course I wish to mount myself upon our king’s spear,” she stated, and a shudder ran through her as she said it. “To feel its length through me, and to have it rammed into me again and again. I would enjoy it on my back, though I would like to ride along it at least for the first time. I would volunteer for such penance without requiring the crime first.”

An Amazon that wanted him to dominate rather than ride him? That was interesting.

The tallest turned toward her, and for a moment the rebuke did not come. The same want was plain enough in the set of her mouth, in the way her eyes had gone to Winston and stayed there a fraction too long before she dragged them back. She simply refused to put it into words.

“What?” The longer-haired woman made no attempt to look ashamed. “You have both thought it.”

Winston raised an eyebrow, and that was apparently enough to remind all three that discussing their king as though he were absent might have limits. They lowered themselves together, though the amusement had not entirely left their faces.

“Our apologies, my king,” the first said, the richness of her voice becoming more formal without losing its warmth. “The scent of your seed distracted us, as did the penance of the four Penitents.”

Her longer-haired sister glanced up through lowered lashes. “Among other things.”

The tallest closed her eyes briefly, as though endurance might keep her from saying the same thing aloud, before bowing her head again.

Hippolyta laughed. The sound was low and unashamed, and she drew Winston’s arm in against her side, both of hers closing around it as she leaned into him, her cheek near his shoulder, and her breast envelopng his arm.

“You see,” she stated, warm with the amusement she made no effort to hide. “Even the decent one is only decent in her mouth.”