The Queen’s Knights
Auteur
Ophelia Bell
Lezers
501K
Hoofdstukken
31
Chapter 1
GWEN
When I offer an invitation to dine, half a dozen men and a couple women raise their hands from the crowd beyond the window. Each one sports a matching light blue ribbon on their left upper arm. Left means they’re givers, and they know I’m here to take. Nearly all wear the same ribbon on their opposite arm too. I ignore the other “takers,” seeking one whose right arm is unadorned.
A well-built man catches my eye, an inviting smile spreading beneath his jeweled black mask. Without a word, I tilt my chin and Percy nods, stepping toward the door to my playroom, opening it, and pointing.
“You,” he says to the man with one blue ribbon.
The man looks flummoxed at first, then his eyes brighten. He glances again at where I rest on my throne and licks his lips before following Percy through the door. The rest of the crowd remains outside the viewing window, some disappointed stares looking back. A couple men leave, not content to merely watch. There are more interactive pursuits to be found in other areas of the club. Most choose to stay for the show.
My chosen subject steps into the center of the room opposite my dais and clears his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow and he smiles awkwardly. “Ah, I didn’t expect to be called on. I’m not sure I know how this works.”
He makes it sound as if I called on him to come to the front of class for a presentation. I frown, but don’t answer. His voice is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. His words bring to mind my other life, the one I retreat to Whitewood Club in order to escape. Here I can be queen for a night, fully in control of my own body, my own pleasure, and the partners I choose. No one can touch me without my consent.
Percy steps in, my loyal knight, his muscular bulk blocking my view of my subject for a moment.
“Undress completely,” he instructs, “except for your mask. If she still deems you worthy, you’ll take your position beneath the throne. What’s expected of you should be self-explanatory after that.”
The man nods and combs his fingers through his hair. He’s handsome, from what I can see. His hair is thick and wavy and inky-black. His eyes are dark behind his mask, but I can’t tell whether they’re blue or brown. He’s as tall as Percy, but leaner, just shy of wiry—though when he strips off his shirt, I reassess, taking in his light brown skin and tattooed biceps, the faint dusting of dark hair that accents a moderate six-pack, and a swimmer’s frame, still slightly soft with youth. When he bends over to untie his shoes, the muscles of his tattooed shoulders ripple. The ink appears to go farther than I can see and piques my interest. He’s young, but adventurous. Not faint of heart, but willing to submit.
Percy catches my eye, and I give a slight nod to his unspoken question. He’s the perfect assistant, his instincts on point when it comes to anticipating my needs, and when my subject sheds his jeans and stands upright again, Percy makes a circular motion in the air.
“Turn slowly so the queen may inspect you.”
The man smirks and lifts one shoulder, but obeys. He rotates almost comically slowly, pausing when his back faces me as if he knows I want a good look at his tattoos. The artwork is a striking scene of a knight on horseback slaying a dragon. The man shoots me a glance over one shoulder, then looks at Percy.
“Does she ever give her own commands? Not that I mind a proxy, this is just my first time here, so is this how it always goes, or…?”
“Save your tongue for the real task,” Percy says, his tone tinged with humor. “You’re going to need it. But every dominatrix makes her own rules—within the bounds of the club’s rules, of course.”
The man lets out a low laugh, the sound relaxed and confident despite the taut anticipation strung through all his limbs. He swallows again as he turns to face me, his gaze traveling over me in an easy manner, more curious and appreciative than lascivious. His cock thickens slightly when his focus returns to my face.
My face, of all things, half-covered with a mask similar to his own, is what makes him rouse fully—and not even my mouth, the part exposed, but my eyes. We stare at each other, and I force myself to hold his gaze, to avoid dropping it to his crotch to witness his arousal grow. I’m the one in charge here, even though Percy relays the orders. I’m queen on Masquerade Night at Whitewood Club. I sit atop the throne and men line up, hoping to be chosen for a chance to taste my nectar.
This one’s smile is hopeful, seeking approval. I maintain my perfect composure and grant it with a nod.
I haven’t been this disarmed by a man in so long, it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. But most of all, it gets my blood flowing more than it ever has on Masquerade Night.
The last Saturday of every month is when I get to don this persona, to forget about Gwendolyn Brennan and her weaknesses. I become Queen Justine for a single night, take my place on the throne in room fourteen on the second level of Whitewood Club, and choose who services me.
Because Gwendolyn Brennan didn’t get to choose when a violent stranger broke into her university office one evening and forced his cock down her throat, and she’s been running from the nightmares ever since.
The images only flash through the back of my mind for a split-second, but I’m already in the zone, behind the veil of the queen. Not only do I hold the power here, but I also have a knight at my side willing to shield me with his body, if it comes to it. Nothing can hurt me, and this masked morsel of youth and vigor is about to submit for the sake of my pleasure.
Percy steps toward me and I lift my feet from the cushioned platform beneath them, spreading my knees wide. My sheer skirt parts at a split down the middle, and as expected, the man’s eyes drop to my exposed core. For effect, I shrug the straps of my gown off my shoulders, baring my breasts both to him and our observers beyond the glass. Several members of the audience smile and a few lean closer, ready for the show to begin.
Percy’s on his knees, adjusting the moving pieces of the throne for my subject to take his place. The padded footrest rotates and aligns perpendicular to the throne, coming to rest at a slight incline to the floor below my dais. Percy snaps the narrow seat at the end into place. Then he reaches beneath me to lift the headrest up into position.
His face is inches from my pussy, but this part never seems to faze him. He explained at the beginning of my training for this role that he’s only here for my comfort and safety, and has never given the impression that he cares about anything else. Having the friendship of a man I can trust so implicitly has been the greatest boon to my healing, but I admit the last couple Masquerade Nights, I’ve wondered whether he even thinks of me sexually at all.
Finally he unbuckles the wrist straps that attach to either side of the throne and steps to the side, gesturing to the narrow cushioned backrest where my subject must take his place.
“She prefers your wrists restrained. If this is an issue, say so now.”
The man blinks, but nods. “Mouth and tongue only. Got it.”
Percy leans in to indicate a pair of polished wooden handles above the cuffs on either side of the bench. “These are for leverage, if you need. Do you have any questions? If not, make yourself comfortable.”
My plaything is fully erect now. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips, drifting his gaze over the entire tableau once before shaking his head and stepping toward me. He turns and straddles his seat, crouching to lower himself and then lying back. His body is still tightly wound, but he controls his movements like an athlete, hyperaware of his surroundings.
My heartbeat accelerates when he lowers his head between my knees and peers up at me from behind a black velvet mask studded with tiny, glittering onyx gems. His hands brush the backs of my calves when he extends both arms and allows Percy to restrain him.
We stare at each other through my parted thighs, his gaze briefly flicking up to my exposed pussy barely a foot above his head. His lips quirk into a playful smile and he shakes his head. “Please tell me this isn’t as close as I’m allowed to get. My tongue isn’t that long.”
Percy finishes buckling the left cuff around the man’s wrist and taps the underside of the backrest. “You’re on rails. Just push up with your legs until you’re positioned where you like and it’ll lock in place. You’re good to go. Bon appétit!”
With that, Percy steps out of the way into the shadows just behind my throne and whispers into my ear, “I’m here for you, my queen. Just say the word if you need me.”
