The Inquisition's New Dress Code

https://www.hentai-foundry.com/pictures/user/Evandion/704768/Josephine-Pinup

You push yourself up from the Blowjob Throne, the leather creaking softly as you rise. The echoes of your groans still linger in the grand hall, mingling with the murmur of your courtiers. With a satisfied smirk, you adjust your attire, tucking your spent cock back into your pants. The weight of your belt is a familiar comfort as you stride towards Josephine's office, the anticipation of what you might find drawing you like a moth to flame.

The door to her office is slightly ajar, a sliver of candlelight spilling out into the dim corridor. You push it open with a deliberate slowness, savoring the moment before you step inside.

As you step into Josephine's office, the soft glow of the candlelight dances across her face, illuminating the remnants of your earlier encounter still glistening on her lips. She looks up from the papers scattered across her desk, a mixture of professionalism and the lingering haze of pleasure in her eyes. The room is filled with the scent of old parchment and the faint musk of your recent intimacy. She has changed, wearing only a golden colored scarf and tights of the same color. Nothing else, not even panties.

She is writing on her ledger, turning her face to you as she hears you. "Oh, good evening, Inquisitor. I have finished the format for the new dress code for the female members of the Inquisition. As you can see, I have already complied."

You come closer, enjoying the view and smirking maliciously. She eyes your cock, always out in the air and stiffening. "I just need your sign." She says, taking your cock and stroking it "This should be good."

Your smirk widens as Josephine's delicate fingers wrap around your hardening length, her practiced strokes coaxing you back to full arousal. The golden scarf draped over her shoulders slips slightly with each movement, revealing glimpses of her breasts as she leans over the desk. Her tights cling to her thighs, the fabric whispering with every shift of her legs. You grip the edge of the desk, watching her quill-calloused palm work your cock with bureaucratic efficiency - precise upward twists timed to your sharp inhalations.

Your free hand snakes under her scarf to grope bare flesh as she works, finding her nipple already pebbled against your palm.

The parchment sticks to her ink-smeared skin as you wrench it away, your cock pulsing angrily in her grip. With a growl, you shove the desk clear in one violent sweep - scrolls cascading to the floor, sealing wax cracking like tiny bones underfoot. Josephine's startled gasp becomes a choked moan as you bend her over the polished mahogany, the golden scarf tearing beneath your fingers as you spread her tights around trembling thighs. Her calloused palms scramble for purchase, sending inkpots rolling across the shuddering desk as you spit on your cock and sheath yourself in her tightness.

The mahogany groans beneath her weight as you piston into Josephine's clenching heat, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of flesh and the crunch of parchment trapped between her belly and the desk. Her choked whimpers harmonize with the creaking wood, ink-stained fingers clawing at the surface as you bend low to bite the nape of her neck. The metallic tang of blood blooms on your tongue when she arches backward, her golden tights splitting at the seams as you spread her wider. A shattered inkpot rolls beneath your boot, staining the stone floor with patterns that mirror the bruises flowering across Josephine's hips.

Your hips snap forward with the rhythm of a war drum, each brutal thrust driving Josephine's face against ink-smeared correspondence stuck to the desk. Her muffled cries vibrate through parchment bearing noble seals now torn by her teeth, the taste of wax and iron flooding her mouth as you yank her head back by the scarf's remnants. The throne's magic thrums through your veins like lyrium, its compulsion bending her spine into a deeper arch as you fist a handful of her hair - black strands wrapping around your fingers like Antivan contract ribbons.

The throne's enchantment courses through your veins like molten lead, its compulsion forcing Josephine's hips to meet each of your thrusts with **** precision.

Your climax arrives with the bitter taste of her hair oil as you bury Josephine's face in the ruined trade agreement, her choked scream muffled by parchment dissolving into pulp between her teeth. The throne's magic wrenches her body taut as you empty yourself inside her, every pulse of your release matched by the involuntary clench of her muscles under the enchantment's control. Hot seed mixes with ink dripping down her inner thighs, the viscous fluids pooling in the shredded remains of her golden tights. When you withdraw, the wet pop of separation echoes through the chamber, followed by the slick patter of spent fluids on stone.

Your seed drips from her trembling thighs as you step back, admiring the ruin of Antivan silk and shattered seals beneath your boots. Josephine's choked sob catches in her throat when you grip her ink-smeared chin, forcing her tear-streaked face upward to meet your gaze. "Present your... reforms," you growl, thumb pressing into the parchment fragment stuck to her lower lip. The throne's compulsion arches her spine into a painful bow, torn tights snagging on splintered wood as she staggers upright.

Josephine's trembling fingers fumble with the lacquered box at the edge of the desk, her ink-stained nails leaving smudges on polished rosewood as she extracts the rolled parchment. The throne's magic forces her spine into an unnatural curve as she presents the reforms, her torn tights snagging on splintered wood that bites into her exposed thighs. You lean back against the ink-splattered desk, still dripping onto the flagstones, and use your softening cock to tap the document's edge. "Read it," you command, watching her throat constrict as the enchantment compels obedience.

Your cock throbs as Josephine's lips move, the throne's enchantment binding her words to your desires. "Mandatory evening inspections... beginning at sundown... all female personnel to present themselves... for physical review and... personal inspection by the Inquisitor and his appointed assistants." Her words end in a choked gasp, the parchment trembling as her fingers cramp, her Antivan accent thickening around phrases like "mandatory evening inspections" and "disciplinary servicing." The rolled parchment trembles in her ink-crusted hands, its edge brushing against the fresh bite marks purpling along her collarbone. You watch a droplet of seed trace the path of a quill stroke down her inner thigh, catching momentarily on the unraveling threads of her tights before splattering atop a broken wax seal depicting House Montilyet's crest. Her left nipple peeks through a tear in the golden scarf still partially tangled around her throat, the areola puckered tight from your earlier rough handling.

You tap the edge of the document impatiently, each tick of the chamber's ancient clock seeming to echo through the room like a **** knell.