Ask to see Horace’s room

The fire smouldering deep in Adella steadily builds, and she finds herself acting with a boldness — or perhaps rashness would be a better word — she has never known.

“Is that your quarters, Horace?” she asks, looking toward his door.

He nods, but his eyes are filled with uncertainty. Evidently this young man is no stranger to inviting women back to his place; Adella witnessed one such endeavor just a few minutes ago. This is clearly new territory for him, however, to have the Princess Royal so interested in him. All palace staff are instructed in no uncertain terms that the members of the royal family are not to be treated casually. Although Horace may have fantasized about Adella —and even about the Queen — he never would have dreamt that his fantasies had a prayer of ever coming true.

“I’d like to see where you live,” she says to him, placing her hand on his arm and feeling the hardness of his muscles.

The pheromones she detected outside were nothing compared to what fills her nostrils now that they are inside. Her own lust is fueled by the already-aroused state of the stable boy, and as she senses him steadily losing his battle to keep his arousal from increasing, that knowledge fills Adella not only with sexual passion, but with a feeling of power and control.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting company,” says Horace, uncertainly. “It’s a bit of a mess.”

Adella knows he didn’t care about the condition of his quarters when he was attempting to seduce Drina. The memory of watching from her window as the the amorous couple made out sends a tingle and renewed moistness through her pussy. Dimly, she is aware of the fact that such thoughts are unbecoming a daughter of the king, but the warnings grow steadily more distant as she drinks in the masculine scent and sight of Horace.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” she says, and reaches past Horace to open the door to his room. In doing so she presses her body against his. She savors the solid hardness of his chest and the rigid muscles of his thighs against hers. Without conscious thought, she presses her waist against his, thrilling at the knowledge that mere millimeters of fabric are all that separate his famously-large cock from her hungry, wet cunt.

The doorknob turns easily, but Adella pretends to have difficulty with it. She puts a puzzled look on her face and looks into Horace’s eyes as her squirms and repeated grinding against him takes its effect. “The door seems to be stuck,” she says, pushing against him repeatedly, as if her efforts will somehow transfer through his body to the door.

Adella’s sole experience with a cock thus far was in the horrifying, nightmare encounter with a savage werewolf. She therefore has no real standard for evaluating abormal size, but even so, there’s no mistaking the fact that the whispered stories about Horace’s endowment were not exaggerated. The bulge that meets her grinding crotch is massive. If given the opportunity, she could have easily gotten herself off multple times by remaining in this position, pleasuring herself against the dimwitted-but-exceptionally-well-hung member of the palace staff. Indeed, by the time she realizes she is doing so, she has already started to go well beyond a simple bump and grind; she is intentionally and overtly rising and lowering herself along the cloth-covered length, feeling its protrusion stimulate her passion center.

She savors the realization that she is in control of this situation. As a member of the royal family, she always had a measure of authority, but it consisted largely of being able to give commands to her ladies-in-waiting or to the chamber maids. In terms of real power, that was something reserved for the males of the family — a fact she had frequently bemoaned. Now, however, feeling Horace grow ever harder and erect because of what she was doing to him, and seeing how turned on he is, but unable to act on his desire, she finally felt a power that was significant and intoxicating.

She wondered if this is what drove her brothers to be the womanizers they are, but she dismissed that thought. “They are men,” she reasoned. “They are compelled to whore themselves with anyone who wears a skirt because they are actually enslaved to those women. The one who can cause a man to be aroused is the one who actually holds the power.”

Horace’s face is beet red. His eyes have the look of a trapped animal. Adella doesn’t know whether to laugh at how confused he is, or if she should just rip his clothes off and take him right there, because of how totally adorable and desireable this makes him look. She wonders why she did not discover much sooner how much fun this sort of hunt could be.

After a few more failed “attempts” with the doorknob, she finally succeeds in turning it. She pushes the door open and steps back from Horace’s hard (in every way imaginable) body.

“Now, will you show me inside, Horace?” she asks sweetly.

Numbly, and silently, Horace nods, but he does not take a step. His eyes are transfixed well below Adella’s face.

Looking downward, she sees that in her grinding against his body, her already-indecent nightgown, unhindered by the top few buttons, has folded back at the neck, fully exposing one of her breasts. She glances up again quickly at Horace and sees him staring, open-mouthed.

Smiling, Adella licks her forefinger and thumb and then seductively pinches and strokes her nipple, leaving a glistening layer of saliva on the hard, dark nub.

Without bothering to cover the exposed breast, she walks around Horace into his room, grabbing his elbow as she does so, and leads him into the room.

Once inside, the powerful effect of Horace’s pheromones hits her with an even greater intensity. Here, in this room where he has seduced many a lass, stroked his cock to orgasm on nights when he was **** to sleep alone, and where he spent many an hour lustily daydreaming about the most secret of perversions, his pheromones saturated the air, filling Adella’s lungs with every breath.

She inhaled deeply, feeling her clit swell and throb with a passionate need to make love. “No,” she corrected herself. “Not make love... I need to fuck. I need to rut. I need a man for no reason other than to make use of his cock to give me all the pleasure I desire.”

She looks at Horace, whose eyes are still transfixed on her breast, and she is surprised to hear a low growl escape from her chest. The edges of her vision seem to grow red, and she feels a pounding in her head that is surpassed only by the insatiable throbbing of her clit.

She attempts to take a deep, calming breath, realizing that she is flirting with some form of insanity. The wisest thing to do would be to over her breast and run from the room and never speak of this night again. And yet, as she looks at Horace, she so desperately wants to surrender to the beast-like, fiery passion that she is thus-far only barely able to contain.