The Queen’s Throne Part 1

He complied, and she tied the fabric around his head, knotting it securely. Darkness enveloped him, heightening every sound—the rustle of her clothing, the soft creak of the floor, the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. His world shrank to her.

“Hands out,” she said.

He extended them, and she bound his wrists with the silk ties, the knots tight but not painful. She guided him to his feet and led him across the room, her grip firm on his arm. He stumbled once, disoriented, but she steadied him with a hand on his chest.

“Trust me,” she murmured, her breath warm against his ear.

“Always,” he replied.

She positioned him against the wall, his back pressing into the cool surface. He heard the faint clink of metal, then felt her attach something to his collar—a leash, hooked to an anchor above him. His arms were raised, the silk ties looped through a hidden ring, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Evelyn stepped back, admiring her work. Marcus was a canvas of muscle and submission, his body taut with anticipation. She picked up the candle, tilting it so a drop of wax fell onto his chest. He hissed, the heat a sharp contrast to the chill of the wall.

“Too much?” she asked, a rare softness in her tone.

“No, Mistress,” he said quickly. “More.”

Her laugh was low, approving. She dripped another bead of wax, then another, painting a constellation of red across his skin. Each drop drew a gasp, a shudder, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t—not that he wanted to.

She set the candle down and closed the distance between them, her fingers tracing the wax trails. “You’re beautiful like this,” she said, her voice a caress. “Helpless, but strong. Mine.”

“Yours,” he echoed, the word a vow.

Evelyn unhooked his wrists, letting his arms fall, though she left the ties in place. She guided him to the floor, pushing him onto his back. The blindfold stayed on, keeping him in her thrall. She straddled him again, this time shedding her blazer, the corset’s laces brushing his stomach as she moved.

“Do you want to please me?” she asked, leaning down until her lips grazed his.

“Yes, Mistress,” he breathed. “Please.”

“Then you will,” she said, and the promise in her voice was a command in itself.

The night deepened, a symphony of power and surrender. Evelyn rose from his chest, her movements deliberate as she untied the silk from his wrists, freeing his hands but not his will. She slid off her boots, the sound of zippers slicing through the quiet, and positioned herself above him, knees bracketing his shoulders. The blindfold kept him blind, but he could feel her heat, smell the jasmine on her skin.

“Hands on my thighs,” she ordered, her voice low and commanding. “You’ll use them to steady me. Nothing more.”

He obeyed, his palms settling on her smooth skin, fingers trembling with restraint. She lowered herself, guiding his head with a firm grip on his hair. “Your mouth is mine now,” she said. “Show me how well you can serve.”

Marcus tilted his face upward, lips parting as he pressed them to her, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as her soft moan spurred him on. His tongue moved with precision, tracing her contours, tasting her desire. Evelyn’s breath quickened, her fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer. She controlled the rhythm, rocking against him, her thighs flexing under his hands as she chased her pleasure.

“Yes,” she hissed, her voice a thread of silk unraveling. “Just like that.”

He redoubled his efforts, his world narrowing to the sounds she made—gasps, sighs, the occasional sharp intake of breath that told him he was pleasing her. His jaw ached, but he didn’t falter, driven by the need to obey, to satisfy. Her nails dug into his scalp, a delicious sting that matched the wax still cooling on his chest.

Evelyn’s movements grew erratic, her control fraying at the edges. She pressed harder against him, her moans rising in pitch, until a shudder ripped through her, her body tensing as she crested. Marcus felt her tremble, tasted the flood of her release, and held steady, his hands gripping her thighs to anchor her through it.

She lingered there, breathing heavily, then slid back, resting on his chest. Her fingers loosened in his hair, stroking gently now. “Good boy,” she murmured, the praise washing over him like a balm.

But she wasn’t done. Evelyn shifted, turning to face his feet, and straddled him again, this time over his hips. She tugged his briefs down, freeing him, and he groaned as her fingers wrapped around him, firm and possessive. “You don’t finish until I say,” she warned, her tone brooking no argument.

“Yes, Mistress,” he managed, voice strained.

She guided him inside her, sinking down slowly, deliberately, until he filled her completely. Marcus bit his lip, the blindfold amplifying every sensation—the heat of her, the tightness, the way she clenched around him. She began to move, a slow grind at first, then faster, her hands braced on his thighs for leverage. Each roll of her hips was a command, a claim, and he fought to please her, to hold back his own release as she rode him with relentless intent.