Sir Leon And His Queen

Synopsis: A Knight misplaces his diary of erotic fantasies, and his Queen finds it.

Author's Note: A story I wrote for a client. I welcome any feedback you may have! I hope you enjoy it!

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SIR LEON AND HIS QUEEN

It is said that the Royal Knights of the Kingdom of Glade were split in two orders: the First for its King, and the Second for its Queen. While the First accompanied the King on his many escapades to the furthest reaches of his domain, the Second always remained with the Queen, for they served as her personal bodyguards until death. One might think it a cozy job to watch beautiful women share tea and cakes with the lords of neighboring provinces. But serving Queens, especially the demanding sort, had its own risks and rewards.

Sir Leon of Gravenrock fidgeted restlessly in his greaves, glancing to-and-fro from the slit of his metal helmet. As he always did, every hour of every day, he was dressed immaculately from head to toe in full plate armor. But now beads of cold sweat crawled down his forehead, and if not for his helmet, he was sure his peers would read the dread on his face.

"Gods, where could I have left it...?"

He stood statuesque by the stained-glass window, along with the seven other Royal Knights. Before them, a dark-haired and beautiful woman--not too far in age from Sir Leon himself--stepped forth to address her audience. She wore a rosy dress embroidered with gold, and a jeweled tiara rested upon her prominent brow.

Sir Leon gulped anxiously. The woman was the Queen Rosayle herself.

"Eat, drink, and be merry," announced the Queen. "Tis a night to celebrate! The King has successfully defended our borders from the invader Zelmites. His legion suffered meager losses, and will return in a fortnight's time."

The myriad knights, lords and ladies, the maids and servants in the lofty throne room threw their hands in the air and cheered. "To the Kingdom of Glade!"

In short time, the banquet arranged upon the long feasting table--the spiced boar, the elderberry tarts, the curried butter, and the bread--was consumed with gusto. The dimly-lit hall, dressed with red and gold banners, smelled of wine and mead. And a medley of men and women danced with each other on the open floor, arm in arm, despite the wailing snowstorm just outside.

Sir Leon would have none of it. After her address, the Queen generously bade all of her bodyguards not only take leave of her, but shed their armor and enjoy the feast. He did not. He sat alone at a table in the corner, clutching a mug of mild cider, only opening the visor of his helmet to drink it.

"Leon!" A squire dancing gayly with a young woman shouted out to him from the floor. "Leon, tis a night for merriment! And you sit here like a lunatic with your full armor and helmet?!"

"My apologies, Guinn. My heart is not with me," he replied.

"Not with you? Doubt it! You're just being shy, as always!" He laughed drunkenly.

The squire and his partner danced off, paying little heed to the lone knight.

If one took a better look, however, they would see that Sir Leon's eyes were not sulking as one would expect. Rather, his gaze was pointed squarely at the King's table where the Queen sat. He could scarcely tear his eyes away from her.

Queen Rosayle's lips were as red as pomegranates, and her auburn hair tumbled down her bare shoulders like waterfalls of liquid mahogany. The rosy gown she wore this night was unusually low-cut, displaying the deep valley betwixt her pale breasts in a fashion that Leon could not hope to ignore. Only her doe-like brown eyes were considered common. But even those, when one met her gaze, glittered like black diamonds.

He sighed. As the Queen's trusted bodyguard, there was nothing unusual about keeping an eye on her. Rather, it was his other, more intrusive fantasies that shamed him. The Queen was indeed his pride and joy, but at other times a great deal more.

And because of that, he was anxious. He was anxious because the record of those shameful fantasies--his personal diary--was missing. If one more chaste than he had found and reported it--

Suddenly, chills prickled down his back. He watched as Queen Rosayle herself looked up and stared directly back at him! He felt her leer fly straight across the hall, over the heads of three-score men, and hit him like the gaze of a serpent. The knight was taken aback.

Is she looking at me?! W-what for?!

Sir Leon did not move a muscle. Perhaps he thought the Queen might be looking at someone behind him, despite the fact he was in a corner. But no. Rather, as if to communicate her awareness, she leaned on the table and casually rested her chin on her palm, looking at him while wearing a smirk that would normally have been delightful.

"Oh Gods. Does she know?"

He opened his visor slightly and sipped more of his ale. Then he took another swig before standing up.

"I-I suppose I'll just patrol the battlements for a while..."

He left the hall with a blush so hot that the freezing outside air did not even phase him.

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To Sir Leon's horror, he was not imagining.

A mere two hours later, with the festivities ended and the main hall nearly empty, the knight received a summons from the Queen herself. The writing on the parchment was short and sweet: "To Sir Leon of Gravenrock--I wish to see you in my bedchamber anon."

Few had privilege to speak to the Queen in her bedchamber in the highest tower. But as he clanked up the long, spiraling staircase, the Knight only felt a sense of impending doom. And when a tall, oaken door came into view, his heart pounded and he hesitated.

"M-my Queen," he said. "It is I. Sir Leon."

"Come in," she said. Her voice was demure and calming.

He pushed the heavy door open. The hinges creaked as light shone through.

Every corner of the Queen's room was adorned with gold tassels and drapes of red taffeta. An iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, fully lit. Her four-poster bed sat invitingly on the far-side of the room while the fireplace crackled nearby.

"My Queen?" The Knight glanced around.

"Here," she said.

She was by the fire, seated on a bench covered in a dozen, colored cushions. Her countenance was ravishing. Flames danced in her dark eyes as she turned and rose, still dressed in the rosy gown she wore earlier.

"Thank you for coming, Leon," she smiled.

The knight winced.

"My Queen, I mean no offense, but I would prefer you call me 'Sir' Leon."

"Well, I don't," she replied simply. "I've always called you Leon. Even during your chapel days, and after your knighting, I never thought of you as anyone but Leon."

"Those days are so far behind--"

"That they are. Be that as it may, I am your Queen and I will call you what I wish."

Sir Leon paused before heaving a resigned sigh. "Very well, my Queen."

He did not enjoy having his hard-earned knighthood teased like this by such a woman. Although Queen she was, their history together made awkward public conversation. It was also this very same history that formed the basis of his ceaseless infatuation.

He stood straight and still in his boots as Rosayle, his Queen, tiptoed circles around him in the flickering dark.

"You're doubtless wondering why you're here," she broke the silence with a simpering smile.

"You were staring at me during the feast," said the knight.

"So were you, and it was easy to spot you. You were the only one in full armor. It amused me."

"Ugh--" He groaned.

"But the other reason I asked you here--" She unveiled a small book behind her. "--is this."

The book's dusty cover was dirty blue, its pages thick and uneven. It bore no title.

Sir Leon's heart froze, and he broke into a cold sweat. The diary he had lost, and the reason for his anxiety, was in her hand!

"Can you tell me what this is, Leon?" She raised an inquisitive brow.

"Tis... tis my--"

"June, Summerlight. The 6th," she read. "My Queen was wearing the green dress on the way to the festival. I fear I will not be able to keep my feelings to myself at this rate. I would like nothing more than to hold her in my arms and kiss her neck in ecstasy..."

The knight could barely stand as she began to read the entries. He wanted to grab the book from her, but she continued.

"December, Winterlight. The 8th. I'm rather fond of this one," she added. "I dreamt again last night about my Queen. I dreamt that I tore the dress from her shoulders, spread her thighs such that her womanhood was laid bare. Then, as we held hands, I speared myself into her with reckless abandon, until her eyes rolled up with ecstasy, and her womb indulged in my copious seed. I am ashamed to have dreamt this, if only because it shall ever remain a fantasy. My Goddess. And my Queen Rosayle."

She peered upward with a smirk, and saw his terror.

"My Queen, I beg you to stop." The knight trembled. "I can't bear to hear you read it. If I take my leave, I swear you will never need see me again. I swear it. I swear it!"

"Leave?" She snapped the book shut. "No, you will do no such thing. Such words, such salacious thoughts. About me! I had no idea you had them, Leon."

"They are--" The knight stammered. "I am deeply ashamed, my Queen. I only wish--"

"Wish what? To make me happy? Or make yourself happy?"

Sir Leon had run out of words. He wanted nothing more than to leave in shame like the coward he was. He could not even look back into the eyes of his charge.

She leaned on the couch and clutched the book to her breast.

"Take it off, Leon. Your face. I want to see it."

"My Queen?"

"I haven't seen your face in a long time. Take it off. Your helmet, I mean."

For a moment, he hesitated, uncertain of what was going to happen next. Then, he took his helmet in his hands, and slowly pulled it off. Locks of blond hair rippled from the steel helmet from which they came. His cheekbones were high, and the stubble upon them rough yet cut with purpose. His piercing gray eyes masked a fierceness that betrayed his real age. And his nose was sharp and his lips pursed with an unearthly gravitas. Even Queen Rosayle could not hide the blush that crawled up her neck.

In truth, the revelation of his true feelings lit a passion within her that had heretofore remained unnurtured. Among all of her personal bodyguards, Sir Leon meant the most to her. His was a loyalty that bordered on love, and while she deigned to admit it, if the diary had belonged to any other man, she would have sent him to the dungeon instead of her bedchamber.

"Well?" She caught herself saying. "Aren't you going to continue?"

"My Queen? I don't under--"

"No more questions, Leon. I demand, as your Queen, that you remove your armor."

The knight furrowed his brow. Somewhat confused, he unbuckled his breastplate, which fell to the floor in a heap. He dropped his pauldrons and his gloves to the floor as well, followed by his steel greaves. As he undressed, the Queen circled him like a hawk examining her prey. His muscled body glowed red in the firelight, accentuating the thick, corded muscles of his broad shoulders and trunk-like arms. His abdomen was hewn like slates of marble. The Queen blushed again, nearly daring to touch him, but thinking better of it until her intent was made clearer.

"Leon, I hope you know that such obscene thoughts will not go unpunished."

"I understand," he replied, eyes shut tight. "I will take whatever punishment you have."

Sir Leon stood naked and barefoot on the red rug, dressed in only his burlap loincloth. He should have shivered as the Queen circled him, but the warm fire was unusually welcoming. The cold touch of her fingers brushed his clavicle, around his pale shoulder, then his scarred back. His chest hairs became erect with goosebumps when the tender pads of her fingers grazed the brown knot of his left nipple. He felt her breath brush his neck when he realized she had reached around and mashed her palms whole all over his bronzed chest, feeling every muscle fiber, every dense cord of his battle-scarred torso. His scent, too, filled the room, and the Queen's nostrils flared when she breathed it in.

"It's hard to believe the man you've become, Leon. Your body has no equal. Not even the King's."

She reached for his thigh, grazing the small hairs peppering his corded legs. Then she ran her finger down the hard curve of his bottom, inciting the slightest gasp from his throat. This gasp she adored, and she would have more of it.

One might say this was no punishment at all. But the knight, attempting to stand as still as a statue, struggled with her ministrations. And when she touched the hairs down the small of his back, she watched him gasp again. She smiled, pursing her lips. The effect she had on such a powerful man was too intoxicating to resist. And so, she continued to tease him like a mouse in a cat's paw.

"You want to touch me, don't you?"

"Yes, my Queen," he breathed. "I desire you. Every night."

"When did you start having such thoughts about me?"

"A few years now."

"Is that all?" She acted disappointed.

"Yes."

"When you pleasure yourself--and I know you do--is it me that you think about?

"There is no one else..."

The Queen's heart swelled, but she continued, feeling his broad shoulders, hard abdomen, and firm ass.

"Where do you want to touch me?" she asked.

"Y-your face, my Queen. Your lips. Shoulders, and your breasts. And your bottom. And... and..." He couldn't finish.

She looked down at the front of his loincloth cropped just below his thighs. The long shadow cast by his bulge drew her attention, and she licked her lips. She glanced up at him, then back down to his thighs, then back up to see his expression. The knight knew where she was looking, and tried to slow the flow of blood to his manhood lest he embarrass himself.

To his surprise, the Queen reached out and gently glided a single fingertip across his throbbing bulge, brushing up from his balls to the tip in a single stroke. He gasped hotly and his blush intensified, even as his veiled erection threatened to burst from its confines.

The Queen turned away, hiding her face in the darkness. This punishment, even for her, was testing her own desires. She could barely resist the allure of his strong, naked body--a body that could push her down, split her in twain, and fuck her flesh into a pasty, pleading mash. But doing any more than this, she decided, was a little too much to be called "punishment".

Yes, this should be enough, she thought.

She knelt down and dared to pull away his loincloth. His hardened manhood was already threatening to burst from the fabric. The knight instinctively reached to stop her.

"No," she said simply.

The knight swallowed, and nodded.

She took his loincloth by the hem, and slowly rolled it downward in her slender fingers. When the tousled trim of his pubis touched her red nails, she jumped with eagerness. And thereupon his sizable manhood, only half-erect, stole her breath away when it sprung upward with excitable vigor.

"Gods above, you're massive!"

His thick cock stared at her, its veins pulsing angrily like a beast. His balls dangled dark and heavy. Had she not decided to "punish" him for his insolence, she might have granted his fantasies--and hers for that matter--right then and there.

"So, this is the cock of Sir Leon of Gravenrock," she said. "I admit you're much bigger than I expected. Perhaps a great deal more."

"I beg your forgiveness, my Queen," he replied.

"And so you should." She reached out and touched it. "I can barely wrap my hands around it."

Sir Leon jumped when the Queen wrapped her soft hands around his throbbing shaft. Her nails grazed his foreskin which peeled back as his erection grew yet further. The fully-engorged head of his manhood became as dark as a ground cherry, his full, eight-inches of masculinity curving upwards in an obscene display that alone would have torn a nun's dress to shreds.

Then, almost uncharacteristically, she slapped his erection playfully with her hand after which it sprung back like some child's toy. She couldn't stifle her laugh.

"Goodness, I-I admit the King's is not nearly as reactive as--"

"My Queen, w-what are you doing?" His cheeks flushed pink.

"Ah, that is to say, um..." She briefly fumbled her act. "That is to say you probably want me to finish you, don't you?"

"I-I don't understand. W-what do you mean?"

"I don't know. What do I mean, Sir Knight?"

She gazed directly into his eyes, and there he saw them sparkle like diamonds in the fiery light. Her beauty destroyed him, and he spoke his heart.

"M-my Queen, your hands, I want... I beg you to--"

"You want me to do what with my hands?"

"Your hands on my... ah... stroke it, please."

Despite his full erection, he was blushing fiercely.

"Stroke what?" She was enjoying this.

"My-my cock. Make me come with your hands. Stroke me. Please, My Queen."

For a moment, they said nothing. The fire crackled as the naked knight stood there, his erect manhood on the precipice of climax, while waiting for his Queen's response. The Queen herself almost seemed to enjoy dragging out the moment.

But she was not such a sadist as to deny him. Despite this punishment, her feelings for him were more profound than he knew.

"Stay still, and don't move," she said.

With little warning, she knelt down to his waist, on eye-level with his manhood, and began stroking him gently but vigorously. The knight immediately tensed, his back arcing. His breath grew hot and heavy, eyes lidded. And he looked down and swore this was a dream.

The Queen's thumb and forefinger wrapped around his thick base, stroking him upward until she reached his glistening foreskin. Beads of his arousal were already spilling over her hands, forming webs betwixt her fingers. She applied and reapplied them to his shaft, over and over. When her fingers reached his glans, she massaged his head and his ridge, and even fondled the slit from which he leaked his sap. Her wrist was dainty and limber as she stroked him up and down, bobbing her hand in a pleasant rhythm, drawing out more and more his glossy arousal over her fingers. Her long earrings glittered and swayed from side to side as she milked him.

"My Queen, oh Gods..." He cried out with a heavy sigh.

The feeling of her soft hands stroking his cock left the knight slack-jawed, and suddenly he realized he was drooling. The obscene sound of her slick stroking--a most lascivious sound that nearly pushed him over the edge--echoed repeatedly in the air.

Meanwhile, her other hand cupped his sack, heavy with his seed. She kneaded his balls gently, literally stirring his desire in the palm of her hand. At times, she squeezed them to gauge his pain tolerance, or perhaps just to express her own playfulness. Even so, her touch was surprisingly benign. And when he realized that she meant no harm, he let himself go and moaned long and low.

"Ohh..."

The Queen smiled. His endearing moans filled her chest with pride and pleasure both. It was a moan she never thought she'd hear, and she wanted more. Much more.

How charming, she thought, that such a man would make such sounds just from my hands.

She continued to massage his sensitive orbs with her other hand, but dared to intrude further. When she firmly pressed her middle finger upward into his core, the Queen was again delighted when he cried out.

She tightened her grip on his shaft and increased her pace, beating her palm down hard to his base before quickly stroking all the way back up, claiming every inch of his cock in her hands. She stroked him for several minutes as she enjoyed the amusing expressions he made. In fact, she found pleasing him in this manner almost as fun as teasing him.