Forgiving Dashington

“My dearest Duke Dashington,” you say, your voice suddenly huskier than before, “you are entirely forgiven.”

And then, before he can speak, you sink to your knees beside him upon the carpet – after carefully, but swiftly, putting the zathwop bladearm aside where it can cause no accidental injury – and give in to your earlier temptation, running your fingers through Dashington’s jet-hued curls.

His single eye closes, dark lashes fluttering, and his lips part softly as he whispers, “please, call me by my first name. Call me Rogué.”

“Rogué!” you exclaim lowly. And before you can say more, Duke Rogué Dashington has seized you in his masculine arms and has captured your lips in a soul-searing kiss.

As Rogué’s lithe and powerful tongue conquers your mouth, his strong, firm fingers caress your skin under the top of your space-pyjamas, stroking ever-closer to your lush, perky breasts. Moaning, you lean back to give him access to your womanly charms, and he responds by licking the hollow of your throat as he rolls one pert nipple between his ducal fingers.

“O, Rogué!” you pant. “I long for you to master me as you would an untamed duchy suddenly given the form of a young and lissome princess of the House of Dorg!”

He moans, and releases you abruptly. Before you can be offended, you realize that he has only let go of your feminine flesh so that he can divest himself of his clothing as rapidly as possible. Gratified, you turn eagerly to the fastenings on your space-pyjamas, and toss the garment aside with far less care than you used when discarding your zathwop blade, since there is very little fear of pyjamas going off on accident and killing someone, generally.

While you were pondering the combustibility of pyjamas, the Duke completed his disrobing unobserved. Catching sight of him as he moves towards you again, gloriously nude, you lose all interest in pyjamas, completely captivated by his naked virility. His body is as sculpted as the body-sculptures of Adonisalia II, though his pale skin looks far smoother and more inviting to the touch than the cold stone of those carvings. And his manhood, proudly rampant, is certainly more interesting than any of the inanimate facsimiles you’ve ever encountered – even the special purple one (the one with the sparkles) that you keep in your bedside drawer at home.

“Lie back, dear Xanastasia,” Rogué murmurs, “that I might do to your body that which you have done to my heart.”

“Okay!” you squeak, flopping back at once. The floor of the Duke’s suite, though nicely carpeted, is not the most comfortable thing you have ever reclined upon, but you decide not to mention it, being fairly certain that you won’t care in a moment.

And, indeed, as the dashing Duke Dashington presses an open-mouthed kiss upon your tender nether-lips, you find that the floor is quite comfortable enough. As Rogué moves his tongue tenderly across your delicate folds, you tangle the fingers of one hand in the silken curls of his hair, urging him to continue, while you lightly pinch your nipples with your other hand. Rogué slides his palms beneath the rounded globes of your buttocks, raising your hips off the floor as he thrusts his tongue into your womanly center. Your hand tightens in his hair, and you try to make yourself relax, concerned that you might be causing him pain, but at that very moment, Duke Dashington grazes your sweet pleasure-nub with his teeth, and you climax with a scream.

Rogué tenderly lowers you to the carpet once more, then brings his body above yours, nuzzling at your neck while you catch your breath. “Are you ready, Princess?” he murmurs. And at your only-slightly-dazed nod, he pushes your arms above your head, pinning your wrists to the floor with one masterful hand, and parts your feminine folds with his manly apparatus. He thrusts forward powerfully, groaning, and then pulls back, only to thrust forward again! There is more thrusting! Soon he is gasping and trembling above you, and with but one lift of your hips at the right moment, you bring the exercise to an entirely satisfying climax.

“Well,” Rogué says, a few moments later, “shall we do it again?”

“That would be lovely!” you exclaim. “But I think we’d better take a break for now. I should put some clothes on and call my parents on the holo-phone to let them know where I am and that I am safe.”

The Duke nods, collecting his own scattered clothing. “Very sensible. You may use my holo-phone, of course.”

But you have only just finished dressing when suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, Byron bolts into the parlour. “Duke Dashington! Mysterious stranger!” he cries.

“Actually,” Rogué mentions. “This is Xanastasia, Princess of the Royal House of Dorg.”

“Duke Dashington! Princess Xanastasia!” Byron amends, bowing to you in apology. “Mercenaries attack!”

1) What! Mercenaries attack? What other choice is there but to arm yourself, and, with your allies, face these scoundrels in a whirling whirlpool of war?

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