I am Lucian Thornvale, thirty-two years of age, married, a third-tier royal of no small consequence. My wife and I were traveling to attend a wedding when illness overtook me; at some point, I slipped into a deep, unquiet slumber.
The wagon lurched violently over a jutting rock, jolting me awake with a sharp gasp.
Before me sat Cassia—my wife, my childhood companion, the girl who had once known every secret I dared to whisper. I regarded her through eyes still clouded with haze. She appeared utterly composed, untouched by the moment. Nothing remarkable in that. Among royals, marriages are transactions: alliances forged in ink and blood, never in affection. Love is a luxury we do not permit ourselves; commitment, merely a word we recite.
Cassia, though, has always been different in one quiet, persistent way. Since her teenage years she has devoured fantasy romance novels with a hunger that bordered on obsession—pages turned in secret, cheeks flushed, breath caught on stolen dreams. It was she who first drew me into those same stories; I began reading only because her passion was contagious, a silent invitation I could not refuse.
She used to fantasize openly (at least with me) about the grand escape so many of those tales promised: falling helplessly in love, fleeing the gilded cage with the one man who saw her truly, who burned for her alone. Even after our marriage was arranged, she tried—fiercely, quietly—to live that fantasy in whatever small ways the world allowed.
And for a time, she succeeded. She did fall in love. Deeply. Radiantly. She carried a private happiness that lit her from within.
Until the man betrayed her. Until he shattered every promise with another woman's name on his lips.
It broke her. I felt terribly sad.
Cassia had long been my garden of comfort, the quiet refuge I could retreat to when the world pressed too close. But like everything in nature, even that had its season—and eventually it expired.
One day she came to me with a proposal. "If I marry you," she said, "I won't have to worry about ending up with a stranger. Our families already get along well; it would be easy to convince them."
My mind was a tangle of doubts. Yet I agreed—not out of love, or anything close to it. The feeling was mutual. We shared something deeper than affection: I understood her pain.
The sensation of being trapped in a golden cage. We are royals, parading as though we stand high and mighty. In truth we are nothing more than pretty puppets, strings pulled by duty and expectation.
If I truly understood her pain, then why was there no love between us?
The answer depends on how one defines love. But we are not venturing down that path. A simpler explanation suffices: I cannot fall in love—with any woman, to be exact. The reasons are so tangled and intricate that I cannot even begin to unravel them.
No, I am not asexual.
Yes, that's right—we have sex almost every night. Wild, I know. I don't fully understand it myself. Is it lust? A form of punishment? A way to escape the puppet masters who pull our strings? Perhaps all of those things at once. Maybe none.
Cassia smiles, even laughs at times, but I can never be certain whether it is genuine. She is gorgeous: emerald eyes that catch the light, wavy brown hair that falls in soft cascades, full lips, and those unmistakable heart-shaped curves. She appears gentle on the surface, yet in bed she is lustful—very lewd, unrestrained.
In any case, we were on our way to attend a wedding. It was not our choice, but we had to play our parts. Cassia gazed out the window, perhaps frustrated because we had not had sex the previous night. In truth, we had skipped it for a week now—busy days, exhaustion, and last night my illness had claimed me entirely.
Her gaze shifted to me, a small smile passing over her lips. "Lucian, are you feeling well now?"
"I'm doing better than last time. Thanks for asking."
I replied casually. Cassia reached for my hand and guided it to her thigh. Even through the heavy layers of her crimson ball gown, I felt the warmth and softness of her skin beneath.
"I was thinking," she murmured, "if you're not completely worn out… maybe we could…"
She gave me that curly, knowing smile—the one that promised mischief.
Asking to get intimate in a wagon was so very like her. Cassia harbored every kink one could imagine, at least in this era. I met her eyes.
"In a wagon?" I said. "I know the driver can't see us, but he was born with ears."
She giggled, her eyes narrowing with wicked amusement. "Oh, really? I think the driver will hear you, not me."
You could tell she became a different person in her lewd state. Actually, we all do.
"Alright, that won't happen. Try not to move rapidly."
"Fine, my lazy husband. After all, you are a little sick. Just enjoy."
Enjoy, she said. I don't know about that. Pleasure feels great, can't live without it, but I want something otherworldly. I'm just glad that Cassia hasn't gotten mad.
Cassia rose from her seat, settling between my legs. She unzipped my pants just enough, then freed my erection—eight inches, a respectable length, though I've never particularly cared about such measurements.
I've never fully understood the appeal of oral stimulation; it only truly satisfies when desire has built to a fever pitch or after a prolonged absence of intimacy. Still, I knew it would bring pleasure.
With delicate precision, Cassia cradled me in both hands. She pressed her lips against the sensitive tip before tracing it along the soft pink curve of her mouth. I hardened fully at her touch. Her eyes flashed with excitement as she took me deeper.
As she rolled her tongue along my length, a sensation coursed through me. "Hmmm."
Blowjobs are oddly relaxing in these situations. I ran my fingers through her hair, gently gripping her head. She quickened her rhythm, and I leaned back, eyes closed, wondering why this felt so exquisite while I was ill.
Blowjobs involve imagination too, perhaps. The more I contemplate, the better it feels. My length in her mouth, the tip pressing against the back of her throat. Her tongue teasing the underside of my cock. I wonder what women feel during sex.
My cock twitched inside her mouth as she increased her pace, using her hand while delicately cradling my balls. I couldn't help but cum, my grip on her hair tightening slightly as I released.
I felt warmth spreading as I came. She slowed her movements, carefully containing everything. Then she withdrew my cock, ensuring not a drop was lost, and swallowed.
Wait—swallowed? That was new; she'd never done that before. Then again, she'd always been curious enough to experiment. The sound of her swallowing resonated with a satisfaction that nearly aroused me again.
"You came Quaker then imaged. But i could taste the quality, i just know there is more juice."
"Well you are right, come here"
I pulled her in my lap. Cassia licked her lips, a seductive giggles excapeing. She shifted in my lap, fixing her crimson ball dress. I held her neck, closing the gap between us.
The way her dress holds her shoulder from a side and her exposed callerbone, why wouldn't I take bit. Cassia knowing what I crave, tilted her head on hand. I bit her neck, firmly.
A small moan excap from her mouth. Teasing her neck with my lips, moving up and biting her jaw. A actually moan excap this time.
"Didn't you said driver will here me not you."
Cassia resting her chin on my shoulder. She replied,
"Ohh you know I love when you teasing me during for play."
"Yes, I know."
My hand slipped beneath her dress like a serpent, gliding upward until I nudged her underwear aside and parted the soft vertical lips. Cassia shifted, arching toward me, opening herself to give my fingers room. Her breasts pressed and bounced against my chest as the motion brought her closer.
Too bad we couldn't strip bare in this damned wagon. But we were both horny as hell, and that made modesty irrelevant. She was already slick, drenched. I traced careful circles over her pussy, slow and deliberate. Cassia pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the moans threatening to escape.
I slid two fingers inside her. Her walls gripped tight, the heat almost melting my skin. Her lips parted slightly, eyes fluttering shut—no sound broke free, but the pleasure rippled visibly through her. She was clearly expecting more, craving the rhythm of two at once.
"Yes! Keep it up," Cassia gasped between muffled moans.
I curled and wiggled my fingers deeper, searching those sensitive inner spots. Cassia wrapped her arms around me, her body warming, breaths coming shorter and heavier. She fought to keep every noise locked behind her teeth.
"You like being fingered in a wagon," I murmured, "where the driver could catch us any second."