Painting.

As you traverse the palace's hallways, you hear a peal of laughter issuing from behind one of the doors. The voice is familiar to you, rich and accented. You can't help but enquire into it.

Finding the door to a modest suite left unlocked, you open it, as stealthily as you're able, and peek inside.

In the centre of the tastefully appointed living space, Solla, Jana's right hand woman, stands naked, posing.

“I must say, Lady Solla.” Another voice, a man's, refined. Itherian. “You make for a refreshingly different subject.”

Several paces from Solla, you make out Benjamin Swain, the Lagan nobleman turned travelling bard. He's half-naked, standing before an easel with a pallet in his hand, painting a rather... revealing portrait of the southern warrior woman.

“You're the first in this land to call me that, bard.” Solla responds with a toothsome smile, her curls bouncing. “I could become accustomed to it.”

“Would that we had the time for that, milady.” Swain responds, daubing a few more marks onto his canvas.

Your curiosity piqued, you decide to step forward and announce yourself.

“King Edward!” Swain practically yelps your name. The artist reaches for a nearby cloak, as if to throw it over the nude, ebony-skinned woman before him, but she waves him off.

“Peace, Ben.” Solla tells him. “Edward has seen all I have to offer before.” As Solla runs a hand down her body, fingers tracing the contours of one of her ample tits, you're reminded of your encounter in the hot spring, half a year ago.

“I've missed those tits.” You admit with a smile. Solla proudly thrusts them out towards you.

“And I your... **** of will, Your Majesty.” she responds.

“You, Swain, what's t-the meaning of this?” You ask, gesturing to the half-completed canvas before the bard.

“A passion of mine, Your Majesty.” Swain admits. “Few sights in our world entrance me more than the naked female form. With my... meager artistic abilities, I have endeavoured to capture what I find so enthralling about several prominent ladies at this court.”

In your opinion, the artist was underselling his talents somewhat. The reproduction of Solla was only just beginning to take form, but already it seemed just as evocative as any portrait you'd gazed upon in your time. Then again, most noble portraits did not feature bared breasts or exposed cunt, so that may have been influencing your opinion on the artistic merit of it all.

“When I learned of this little... undertaking, I had to see some of Ben's work for myself.” Solla admits.

“And when she'd seen it, naturally her thoughts turned to being painted herself.” Swain tells you.

“Show me your other work.” You demand of Swain.

"Of course, Your Majesty." Ben responds, giving you a deferential nod. Moving across the room, he gestures you over to a shelf full of framed portraits of various sizes.

Most of the women you're unfamiliar with, having spent such little time in the Palace. A few, however, you recognise just from the dinner last night. There's the Tournesol sisters, posed an arm around each other, comfortable in their shared nakedness. There's Elodie, her pale body lovingly rendered, including the one key difference between her and the other women of the court.

“Ever do one of Madeleine?” You ask, unable to help yourself. Swain laughs darkly.

“I haven't the stones to try it, Your Majesty.” he admits. “Execution may be outlawed in Sinnabarrow, but King Pierre has ways of making you wish that weren't the case. La Mercure is full of prisoners that are proof of that.”

As you cast your eye across his work, you feel Solla approach you from behind, rubbing her seductive body against you.

“Perhaps King Edward could join me?” Solla asks Swain, her hands moving to caress your groin. “Seeing me with him would provide you plenty of... inspiration, no?”

“I like the sound of that.” you admit, turning and putting your hand on Solla in response.

“Well... if you're okay with it, who am I to refuse such... inspiration?” Swain says in a genteel tone.

Solla kisses you, pushing you back softly until you press up against a nearby writing table. You open your legs slightly, and in seconds, the warrior is on her knees, working to free your cock from your breeches.

You wind your hand into Solla's voluminous curls, stroking and gripping her kinky brown hair as she sucks you.

“By the gods...” you groan, watching your pale cock disappear into her full, succulent lips. Part of you wishes your tryst at the Unholy Spring had borne fruit. The idea of the southerner coming to Itheria, belly swollen with your bastard child, spending much of her time near you, was not unappealing, as idle fantasies went.

Swain is hard at work, deftly observing every detail of Solla's oral ministrations. He sketches on scraps of parchment with a piece of charcoal, mutters notes to himself. Though the vast majority of his attention is on Solla, the curve of her arse, the soles of her bare feet, you feel his eyes boring into you, taking in your expression, your breathing, your cock.

“Let's give him something to really admire!” Solla declares, rising to her feet. Swinging around, she leans over the desk beside you, the look in her eyes as appealing as her presented pussy and arsehole are inviting.

Rising to your feet, you bring yourself up tantalisingly close behind the warrior woman. You're at a loss for which hole to enter, when you suddenly recall your threat to one day fuck her arse.

Thinking back on your rough treatment of Elodie with a modicum of shame, you spit into your palm, smearing your saliva onto your cock, then ease yourself into her behind.

You can almost sense the proud warrior's conviction not to make the slightest of declarations of discomfort as you bring your member inside her. Eventually, however, her lips betray her, and she looses the smallest of gasps. It's music to your ears. Grabbing her left side, you move closer to the southerner, kissing her neck, then begin to fuck her in earnest.

“You haven't lost a step, King Edward.” Solla tells you, her voice lilting musically as you take her. Though you're not trying to cause her pain, you can't resist fucking her with a real verve.

His sketches completed, Swain returns to work painting the portrait, still glancing at you and Solla every so often as he does.

You bring your hand down on Solla's arse, slapping it, encouraging her like you would spur on a horse. The well-travelled warrior is only happy to oblige, bucking back at you faster, harder, wilder.

Unable to contain yourself for much longer, you pull out as you come, painting Solla's dark brown arse and thighs with your hot, white cum.

“That was remarkable, Your Majesty.” Solla pants, turning, pulling you in for a kiss. “You're so kind to share your... company with one as lowly as me.”

“Believe me, Solla.” you respond. “It's always a pleasure. I'm sure your commander will find her way to Itheria at some point in the future, at her king's side. I can only hope you will accompany them.”

The southerner smiles warmly.

“I'll endeavour to see that I do, eh?” she tells you.

Setting down his brush, Ben Swain approaches once again.

“A drink before you leave us, Your Majesty?” the artist asks. “I need to take a break from my work, and I imagine you and Lady Solla have just developed quite a thirst.”