Hippolyta abstains but encourages her Sister and Niece to Partake

Astarte's request brought a slow, knowing smile to Hippolyta's mouth. Rather than answer her sister at once, she turned to Winston, caught his chin between two fingers, and drew him into the kiss.

It began soft, a press and a give, and then it opened. Her mouth was warm and faintly of wine, her tongue sliding against his with the unhurried certainty of a woman who had nowhere else to be and meant to be thorough. One hand climbed to the back of his neck and closed there, fingers curling into the hair at his nape, holding him exactly where she wanted him and keeping him there.

Nothing about it hurried. She kissed him the way she answered questions whose endings she had already decided: thorough, unhurried, entirely certain. Heat climbed his throat, and the two women still kneeling lost any room left to mistake it for anything but a claim. Which was what it was. Hippolyta had never been a woman to hide what was hers, and she wanted the room to see exactly who had him.

When she finally drew back, the smile had not left her mouth. She licked him once, slow, the flat of her tongue dragging across his lower lip as though to taste what she had just done to him. Only then did she turn her head toward her sister.

"You and I can share our king later, sister."

The composure on Astarte's face slipped just enough for the pleasure behind it to show, a faint flush rising at the base of her throat as she watched them.

The pad of her thumb dragged once more across his lower lip, light and unhurried, and the small pressure pulled his attention back with it, off the waiting women, off the room, onto the former queen's lips and the taste of her still on his skin. Then Hippolyta released him, and when she spoke there was a satisfaction in it she made no effort to hide. "For now, this session belongs to you and Theana. You have both waited long enough to meet him properly, and I have already had considerably more of my husband's afternoon than either of you."

Theana's face brightened with such immediate enthusiasm that Winston suspected the word session had acquired several meanings before Hippolyta had finished speaking, her gaze already moving over him with open hunger. The invitation was handled with greater dignity by Astarte, though the warmth in her eyes deepened as she rose, the full weight of her breasts shifting under the gold of the cuirass as she straightened.

"You are generous, sister."

"No," Hippolyta said, settling comfortably back against the cushions, one arm remaining close enough that her fingers could rest against Winston's thigh. "I am confident."

That earned the first openly delighted laugh Winston had heard from Astarte, while Theana abandoned any remaining attempt to disguise how pleased she was.

One final kiss was left against Winston's temple as Hippolyta leaned close, her breath warm against his ear as she murmured, "Try not to look so alarmed, lord husband. They have been looking forward to this far longer than you have."

Theana needed no further encouragement. The spear went first, propped against the wall with a care the rest of her plainly did not share. Then the armor came off in quick, sure handfuls, circlet and clasps and gold, and she never once looked at what she was doing. Her eyes stayed on Winston the whole time. By the third piece he had worked out that this was the point. She was not undressing. She was undressing for him, and she knew exactly which one of those it was.

He watched. She knew that too, and the small curve at the corner of her mouth said she had counted on it.

The breastplate came away last, and for that she slowed, letting the metal drag down the flat of her stomach before it joined the rest on the floor. Then she straightened and let him have all of it.

There was, Winston thought, a great deal of her.

Broad through the shoulder, thick through chest and thigh, marked with three or four old scars that nobody had ever bothered to hide, and built on a scale he still found faintly unreasonable. Nothing about the muscle looked decorative. She bent to work off a greave and something in her back shifted under the skin; she straightened, and her breasts swayed with the motion, heavy and unhurried, and he followed them like a man who had forgotten he was supposed to be ruling anything.

Beside him, Hippolyta made a soft, pleased sound. He had, in fact, forgotten she was there.

Astarte went the other way about it. Where Theana had hurried to be seen, Astarte took her time, and wanted him to know it was a choice. The blue cloak came first, unfastened and folded aside with the care of a woman who had done this before an audience and long ago stopped rushing for one. The crown followed, lifted and set down. Then the gold at her forearms, unstrapped one buckle at a time, slow enough that he began to suspect the buckles were decorative and she was simply drawing it out.

"It would honour me to be wanted by you, my king," she said, at the pause the buckles left her. "To have your eyes on my body and know they liked what they saw. My sister has had you all afternoon. I would like to be wanted the way you want her."

Most of a head shorter than Theana and level with Hippolyta, she was no less imposing for it, and she carried a bust that made the comparison academic. The clasps gave under her fingers, and the gold hung open against her chest while she watched him make do with the widening gap and the promise of the rest. Only when he had looked his fill did she peel the piece away and set it aside, and her breasts came free of it, full and heavy, the flush at her throat deepening as the cooler air found her.

The family resemblance became stranger without the armor. She had the same imposing femininity as his wife, though she ran heavier through nearly every line: stronger shoulders, fuller chest, a waist that looked carved before it gave way to hips and thighs built for war. She stood level with Hippolyta and nowhere near Theana's scale, and somehow that made it worse rather than better. Theana had simply been enormous. Astarte was proportioned to loom from a distance he could actually reach. Little scars broke the skin here and there, none of them diminishing the impression of deliberate power. Hair swept high, blue eyes holding his, she managed to look regal even standing beside a growing pile of her own discarded armor.

Winston appreciated both women easily enough. That was becoming one of the less complicated problems Themyscira presented him with.

What remained considerably more complicated was knowing why their eyes looked at him the way they did.

Theana reached him first. She caught his hand and pulled him the two steps to the wide bed, and he went, because a woman that size did not need to ask twice. Astarte followed at her own pace and lay back along the pillows, and when Theana pushed him down onto the mattress it was onto Astarte, his shoulders settling against the soft shelf of her chest and her arms coming up to bracket him without anyone consulting him about whether he wanted bracketing.

Then Theana climbed over his legs.

The robes went first, worked open from the hem and drawn up in slow increments by four hands while two mouths descended on the inside of his calves. Theana kissed the way she did everything, fast and open, each kiss ending only so the next could start. Astarte went slower, and left the marks to cool.

Winston lay there and let it happen, which was becoming a pattern in his life when ti came out to Amazons figuring out how they expressed their affection.

They worked their way up, breasts dragging along his thighs and hips as they went, and he had the passing thought that being used as a surface by two women at once was a luxury no book had prepared him for. At his waist the kissing stopped. Theana put her face close and breathed him in, openly, like a woman inspecting a meal, then let it out warm across his skin. Astarte did the same from the other side, slower, nose almost touching, and the two of them made the small satisfied sounds of women confirming something they had already decided.

Then their mouths moved on, and he stopped being able to be clever about any of it.

Kisses landed along Winston's stomach, open and unhurried, and there was nowhere to look that did not have a woman in it. By the time they reached his chest Theana's mouth had found his sternum and Astarte's lips had caught the edge of a nipple and stayed. He was held flat between them, breasts against his ribs on both sides, and he had the distinct sense of a man being assembled rather than undressed.

Then they rose, together, until both faces were level with his. Theana kissed him first. It was eager and uncomplicated, her tongue in his mouth before he had decided to open it, and above him Astarte watched with interest, one hand drifting through his hair.

Winston, pinned between a woman's mouth and a woman's chest, decided he was not going to improve on this.

Breaking the kiss, Theana looked down at Winston with a hunger that burned in her eyes. There was ceremonious in it, and no hurry either. Just a woman who had decided what she wanted and meant to take it. Her hand came between them, found him, guided him, and then she sank, one long descent that took him to the hilt before she stopped, her breath catching and settling warm against his mouth. He felt the whole way in: the slow give of her, the flex of her thighs as she settled flush, the heat closing around him and holding. Under his shoulders, Astarte's arms tightened around him as he was pushed agianst her firm but soft l breasts. Then Theana began to move.

It was steady at first, like a woman learning the shape and size of him, and smooth with it. Slowly, Theana made certain every roll of her hips stayed one continuous motion, never breaking, never stalling. His hands found her waist because there was nothing else to hold. Each descent pressed him down into the soft give of the body beneath his head, so every stroke landed twice: once in the wet heat of her, once in the warm cushion under him. He was being fucked and held at the same time, and the arithmetic of that was occupying most of his brain.

At the bottom of one stroke, Theana ground down and stayed, circling, a low sound of satisfaction in her throat. Then the slowness went out of her. Hips snapping hard, the wet slap of it filling the room while sweat gathered between her breasts, her mouth came down on his again, open and demanding, tongue sliding against his like the kiss and the fucking were one motion. Somewhere past her shoulder, Astarte's breath warmed the side of his face, one hand resting on Theana's hip as if to feel the rhythm through her.

For a while, Winston let them have him. Then, thrusting up as she came down, he used his grip on her hips to slam her onto him, hard, until the two of them found a rhythm in the middle that neither had been keeping alone. At the first of it her breath caught. Then the wet slap of it doubled in the room.

Nothing eased. Harder with every stroke, until his grip on her hips went tight enough to leave marks and the pressure coiled low and broke. Not once did she stop for it. Grinding down through every spasm, kissing him, taking the sound into her own mouth while her body milked him in slow pulls, she let her own finish break over the top of his, the two of them shuddering against each other until the last of it was spent.

Through all of it, Astarte held him, chest shifting with every impact, and when it was over she did not let go.

Coming down slowly and breathing hard, Theana rolled off to one side, and Astarte lifted her head from beneath him to look down at him, blue eyes steady, one hand trailing a line down the centre of his chest until her fingers stopped above his navel.

"Would you rather have me on top my King," she asked, "or be on top of me?"