Jan. Week 3: Game of Thrones--Leah gets into doggy style

“You know I love to do this doggy, or should I say…”—he paused, relishing the moment—“Dragon Style?”

Leah didn’t dignify it with a response, just rolled her eyes and got on her hands and knees, the mattress creaking under her. He grinned, steadying the camera on a stack of old algebra textbooks, and got behind her. With a practiced, greedy hand he lined himself up and drove in, the first thrust making Leah gasp despite herself. He hovered his cock against her, camera in hand, and paused for a split second of showmanship, basking in the power he wielded over her debasement.

Mr. Baker’s hands were already wandering to her hips as he lined up behind her on the bed, the slick synthetic “dragon queen” dress hiked up around Leah’s waist and the pale-blonde wig threatening to tumble off with the first vigorous thrust.

He started fucking her with a steady, deep rhythm, one hand clawing at the cheap platinum wig while the other gripped her hip like he was guiding a prize animal at the county fair.

“You know,” he panted, “I always thought the Khaleesi was a bit overrated. But you, Miss Williams, you could conquer all of Westeros with an ass like this.”

“Is that what you call this classroom? Westeros?” Leah said, feeling the wig slip sideways and his cock driving even deeper as she braced herself with both hands against the headboard.

“More like Essos. Foreign, untamed… ripe for the taking.”

“Jesus Christ,” Leah muttered, but her own body was betraying her—there was something numbly hot about being used like a TV prop, and each time he bottomed out, she felt a knot of perverse excitement tightening in her stomach. If she was stuck starring in his private fucked-up medieval fantasy, at least she’d steal the show.

Mr. Baker picked up speed, each slap of his hips punctuated with filthy improvisation. “Call me Khal Drogo, babe. Or Khal Daddy. Your choice.”

Leah snorted in derision, refusing to answer--or was she hiding a smirk?

“ I’ll show you who wins the Game of Thrones.” He started pounding her faster, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing against the old cinderblock walls, the princess dress bunched up like a silk noose around Leah’s narrow waist.

“Ugh! yes! Agh! Yes!” Leah shot back, her knuckles whitening as she clung to the edge of the bed.

“Maybe. But he always gets what he wants. That’s the trick.” Mr. Baker’s breathing got ragged. “You ready for the finale? You ready for the money shot, Queen? Or do you want it more?”