Jan. Week 3: Game of Thrones-Leah gets fucked missionary

Mr. Baker didn’t even hesitate, the direction of his next fantasy already mapped out in the demented theater of his mind. He adjusted the camera, focused in on Leah’s face, then pointed with a lewd little twirl of his finger.

“Let’s see you on your back. Just like the Mother of Dragons would conquer Westeros—flat, legs apart, ready to receive the seed of her enemies.” His tone was gleeful, equal parts dungeon master and perverse AV club geek.

Leah rolled her eyes, biting down on the urge to groan. Still, she flopped onto her back on the bed, the synthetic wig sliding and itching against her scalp. The blue gown spilled around her like a puddle. She felt ridiculous and exposed, but at the same time, she’d already resigned herself to the humiliating spectacle.

“You look like a perfect little dragon queen,” he said, stroking himself with one hand as he finished aiming the camera with the other. “All that power, and yet you’re just another slut in a fancy dress.”

Leah gave him her best dead-eyed smirk.

“The things I do for the Iron Throne,” she muttered, and he cackled.

He lined up between her thighs, nudging the dress up. He got a good POV shot of her face and Leah helped move her legs up to help guide him in. Mr. Baker moved his stiffness to her slit and held the camera steady as he pushed himself inside of her surprisingly wet slit.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Tighter than a Lannister’s purse,” he grunted, and began pounding into her with the enthusiasm of a nerd who’d spent his entire adolescence memorizing the karma sutra and none of the actual moves. The friction of his pale skin against her thighs, the roughness of his hands pinning her wrists, the camera’s cold, unblinking eye—it all locked her into the moment, a humiliating tableau that she knew would haunt her every time another episode of Game of Thrones played on a TV screen.

“Call me Khal...” he rasped that turned into a laugh as he steadied the camera while he fucked her.

Leah had to admit, if only privately, that the whole situation was so catastrophically absurd it almost made her laugh. He thrust harder, her breasts swaying with each thrust with the conviction of a dungeon master on a bender, the pace rising and falling by his whim. Leah’s breath hitched with each new angle, each shift of the synthetic wig that threatened to slide down her sweaty forehead. She locked eyes with the camera, deadpan—if he wanted a show, she’d damn well give him one.

“Oh, by the old gods,” she gasped, voice flat, “the Dothraki horde must have sent you special—a true UGH blood rider UGH!”

Mr. Baker wheezed with laughter, then hammered into her so hard she nearly lost the thread of the absurd roleplay.

“You want to be the queen?” he panted. “You gotta take the king!”