The Empress on her cut-crystal throne was as lithe as the golden snake armrests. Coll knelt instantly before her. A shiver rippled over his nearly-naked body. He had come a hundred miles to serve her; he had bested bravos in her arena; he had composed a song in her glory and performed it over dinner before forty-six courtiers and their attendants.
He did not see her rise, but he noticed when her silver sandals came into view. He did not move. Her hand caressed his bare back, soft as a silken handkerchief. Yet there was a firmness to the touch that pleased him, that made him bow his head deeply. His mouth hungered for the taste of her.
She closed the collar around Coll’s neck. It would be silver, and its clasp magic, and it would never leave him.
“Sit,” she said into his ear. He groaned at the touch of her breath.
He stood, and trembled as he sat in her throne. She pushed aside his loincloth and straddled him, and he groaned deeply as she sat upon his shaft and took him deep inside.
Now he was only a part of her throne.
© Felisha Moon 2017