The King smiles deviously...

The king smirks at the mess he left and snaps his fingers once, not at you, at the kitchen door. The head chef comes out with a cloth and a fried pastry as long as a forearm, dark and blistered, twisted so that both ends are thick enough to hold, and nobody in the hall has to be told what it looks like. He is a big man with burn scars on his wrists, and he talks to the pastry first.

"Hot in the middle still. Ready for serving."

He steps between your open knees because that is the only place left to stand, and he sets the end against you with a care that does not match the rest of the night, easing it in along the leak so the king’s spend is pushed back instead of scooped out. You feel the fried crust catch and then seat, and the other end stands up from you into the air above the envoy’s place. Sauce and cum slick the pastry where it disappears.

The chef wipes his hands on his apron.

"Dessert is served. Pastry with a side of cream."

Someone at the sideboard makes a sound that dies. The king laughs, and it is not a kind sound, and he looks at the envoy rather than at you when he speaks.

"If you want this border to go through, you will eat that pastry out of your queen until there is none left. You will not use your hands to pull it. You came here to take something from my table. Take that."

The envoy’s chair scrapes. For a moment you think he will walk, treaty and all, and then you hear him sit again, closer, the outrage still in his breath and the arithmetic already done.

"You will put this in a letter," he says, longer, court stripped. "You will write that I ate from your board under duress of a border, not that I paid court to a woman you keep on a lead. If my king asks, I will say you are insane. Then I will sign, because the pass is worth more than my dignity tonight."

The king does not sit to watch it like a play. He takes a cup to the sideboard and turns his shoulder to the table, which is not mercy, only that he would rather see the envoy’s face than the work. The lead stays on the table-leg. The blindfold stays. You hear the envoy lean in.

The first bites are all pastry, crunch and grease near the standing end, and you feel each one tug inside you when he worries the fried length with his teeth. He is not gentle, he is angry. Crumbs fall on your thighs. When he gets lower the pastry is softer, soaked, and his mouth starts to take cream with the crust, and then there is no crust left at the last inches, only the mess he has to lick to finish the order.

That is when it stops being only food.

His mouth hits your folds around the last of the pastry and the clit bead at once, and the hum and the tongue and the king’s spend all land in the same place. You try not to lift because the instruction about dishes is still in your body. You lift anyway. The envoy makes a disgusted sound into you and does not stop, because stopping would leave pastry, and pastry would leave the pass unsigned. He eats what is left out of you in short, unwilling strokes of his tongue, and the bead does the rest.

You come on his face with a violence that is getting familiar and is not less for that, squirting through the last crumbs and the leak of the king, and you hear it hit his mouth and his cheek and the collar of the coat they just changed. He pulls back with a curse in his own language. You shake on the wood, pastry gone, cream and your own wet on his skin, the beads still crawling.

The king sets his cup down.

"Sign at the end of the course," he says, to the envoy, not to you. "She stays on the board until the wax is in the wax."

The envoy wipes his face on a napkin he will not keep. He does not touch you with his hands. The second hour is no longer a rumor. It is grease on your thighs and a man at your feet who has already paid more than he meant to, and a king at the sideboard who has not turned around yet.