On the bed, the Queen was crying.

Her tears fell onto the silk pillowcase. They spread—dark circles on white silk. Her silver hair was loose—Raven had pulled the pins, one by one, while his other hand worked her body. Her dress was gone. Removed piece by piece. Unbuttoned, unclasped, peeled away. Her bra remained. White. Silk. Enormous. The cups were full—overflowing. Her breasts were massive. Heavy. They pressed against the mattress, spreading on either side of her chest, the flesh bulging past the edges of the cups. Her nipples were visible through the thin silk—dark, stiff, aching.

Her panty remained. White. Silk. It covered her ass. Barely. The fabric was thin. It clung to the curve of her cheeks. It rode between them. The crease of her ass was visible through the fabric. The dark shadow of her anal was visible. Lower, the fabric pressed against her pussy—the lips were swollen, puffy, the fabric sinking between them, the wetness soaking through, the silk going transparent.

"What— what is happening to me—" the Queen sobbed. Her voice was broken. Shattered. Not the voice of a queen. The voice of a woman whose body is burning and whose mind cannot process why. "Why is my body— why am I— this is not— I am the Queen— I cannot—"

Raven’s hands were on her hips.

He was behind her. His coat was off. His shirt was off. His body was lean. Muscled. His skin was pale. His black hair fell across his face. His black eyes looked at her body—at the bra, at the panty, at the wetness soaking through the silk, at the trembling of her thighs, at the arch of her back.

He leaned forward.

His chest pressed against her back. His skin was warm. His muscles were hard. His cock—twelve inches, thick, dark, rigid—pressed against her ass. Through the panty. The silk was the only barrier. His cock lay in the crack of her ass. The head pressed against the small of her back. The shaft rested between her cheeks. The heat of it radiated through the silk.

"What are you doing?" the Queen gasped. She tried to turn. Her hands pushed against the mattress. "You— you cannot— I did not give you permission to—"

"Body massage," Raven said. His voice was low. Close. Spoken into her ear. The words were warm. They traveled down her neck. They settled in her spine. "It is a body massage. The body must touch the body. The oil must be shared. The heat must be transferred."

He rubbed oil on his chest.

The oil was warm. Sandalwood-scented. It ran down his pectorals. Down his stomach. Down the lines of his abdomen. It pooled at his navel. It ran down the V of his hips. It reached his cock. It coated the shaft. The head glistened. The oil made it look darker. Angrier. More prominent.

He pressed against her again.

His oiled chest slid against her back. The oil transferred—onto her skin, onto the bra, onto the silk. His stomach pressed against her lower back. His cock pressed against her ass. The oil made everything slick. Smooth. The friction was gone. His body slid against hers—up and down, the muscles of his chest rubbing against the muscles of her back, the oil spreading, the heat building.

"No— stop—" the Queen gasped. But her body was arching. Her back was curving. Her hips were pressing back—against his cock, against his body, the movement involuntary, the body responding to the touch with a hunger that the mind could not override. "I am the Queen— you cannot— this is not— ahh—"

His hands found her bra.

He unclasped it.

His fingers were quick. Practiced. The clasp opened. The straps fell. The cups loosened. Her breasts were free—they surged forward, released from the confinement, spreading on the mattress. They were enormous. Heavy. The flesh was pale. Soft. The kind of soft that comes from never having trained, never having fought, never having been anything other than a queen. The nipples were dark. Large. Stiff. The areolas were wide. Brown. Puckered. The nipples were elongated—thick, hard, aching.

Raven’s hands found them.

He cupped them from beneath. His hands were large. His fingers were long. But her breasts were larger. They overflowed his palms. The flesh bulged between his fingers. The nipples pressed against his palms—hard, stiff, demanding. He squeezed. He kneaded. He worked the flesh the way Old Tomas had taught him—pressing, rolling, lifting.

"Ah—! Ah—! No—! Stop—!" the Queen cried. But her back was arched. Her breasts were pressed into his hands. Her nipples were aching. Her body was on fire. The pheromones were in her blood. The oil was on her skin. The hands were on her flesh. And the hands knew things—things that no other hands had ever known, things that reached into her body and touched places that had not been touched in years, in decades, in ever.

"Please— what is happening to me— ahh— why is my body— why can I not—"

Raven’s hands moved down.

To her stomach. To her hips. To the waistband of her panty. He hooked his fingers under the silk. He pulled. Slowly. The fabric slid down—over her hips, over the curve of her ass, exposing the cheeks, the crack, the anal. The panty clung to her pussy—it was soaked, the silk transparent, the fabric glued to her labia by the wetness. He pulled. The fabric peeled away. The pussy was exposed.

It was beautiful.

The hair was silver. Matching her head. Trimmed. Neat. A thin line above the slit. The labia were thick. Puffy. Swollen. The outer lips were dark—rose. The inner lips were peeking out—pink, thin, glistening. The slit was wet. The moisture was visible—a sheen, a glaze, a clear, slick fluid that caught the firelight. Her clit was swollen. Peeking from its hood. Hard. Demanding.

Her anal was visible. The ring was brown. Dark. Tight. The muscle was clenched—then relaxing—then clenching. The pheromones were working. Her body was opening. Responding. Yielding.

"You need to be massaged inside," Raven said. His voice was low. Warm. Spoken into her ear. The words were oil. They slid into her mind. They coated her thoughts. "Am I allowed?"

The Queen trembled.

"No—?" she whispered. The word was a question. Not a statement. The question of a woman who is not sure if "no" is what she wants to say, or if it is what she should say, or if there is a difference anymore.

Raven’s hand went between her legs.

His fingers found her pussy. The outer lips. He pressed. The lips parted. The inner lips were exposed—slick, wet, hot. His fingers traced them. Up. Down. He found the opening. He pressed. Not entering. Just pressing. Feeling the resistance. Feeling the heat.

"What— what are you— no— you cannot—"

His fingers found her clit.

He pinched.

He twisted.

"AHH—!!" the Queen screamed. Her body convulsed. Her back arched off the bed. Her hips slammed upward. Her thighs clamped together—on his hand, on his fingers, trapping them. The orgasm hit her like a wave—sudden, violent, unexpected. Her pussy spasmed. Her clit throbbed. The juice poured from her—clear, thick, running down her thighs, soaking the sheets.

"AHH—! What— what is— why is this— happening to me—?!" she cried. Her voice was royal no longer. It was the voice of a woman. A woman whose body has betrayed her. A woman who has been touched in a way that she did not consent to and that her body responded to with an enthusiasm that terrifies her.

Raven pulled his hand away.

He looked at his fingers. They were soaked. Clear fluid ran down his knuckles. It dripped from his wrist. He brought his hand to his mouth. He licked. One finger. Clean.

He reached down.

He removed his underwear.

His cock was free. Twelve inches. Thick. Dark. The head was swollen—purple, angry, the slit leaking pre-cum in a steady stream. The shaft was veined. The oil glistened on it. His balls were heavy. Full. They hung low.

He poured oil on it.

The oil ran down the shaft. Down the head. Down the length. It dripped from the tip. It pooled on the sheets. His cock was slick. Shining. Enormous.

The Queen looked over her shoulder.

Her golden eyes found his cock. Her eyes widened. The gold irises contracted. Her mouth opened. No sound came. Then—

"What— what is that?" she gasped. Her voice was a whisper. A breath. The voice of a woman who has never seen anything like what she is seeing. "Why is it— so big? It is— it is like a— it is like my arm—"

"It is like a hand," Raven said. His voice was calm. Quiet. The voice of a man explaining something simple to someone who should understand. "Because it massages inside your body. And massage is given by hands, is it not, my Queen?"