Pleasing Her Majesty (Lesbian FFF Threesome Fisting): Part Nine of the Erotic Adventures of Heraklea

by Roxie Noir

  Pleasing Her Majesty Copyright © 2015 Roxie Noir

  All rights reserved.

  This book is intended for audiences 18 and over only.

  The cover model is just a model, not someone who endorses or even knows about this book.

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  Pleasing Her Majesty

  Roxie Noir

  Previously on The Erotic Adventures:

  Heraklea stood, still wrapped in her bedsheets, in the largest hall she had ever seen. She wasn’t even positive that she was indoors; she thought she saw a vaulting silver ceiling high above, but it could have been the sky. The floor was white marble, polished to a high shine and cold on her bare feet. Fifty feet away was a golden dais, columns on either side of the dais that went so high she couldn’t see their tops. The dais had six steps leading up to it, and on it were perched two enormous thrones, gold, the armrests carved in intricate patterns and figurines. Hunters chased deer, boars, lions across the thrones; women swooned; men drank from vases.

  What really concerned Heraklea was the two people on the thrones. For one thing, they seemed slightly larger than people should be. Not giants, but slightly wrong, too large by a quarter. For another, they were more beautifully dressed that anyone she had seen before: the man’s robes and the woman’s dress were shot through with threads of silver and gold, and each wore a heavily jeweled diadem on their head. The man had a gray mane and beard that gave him a slightly wild look, mismatched to his immaculate clothing, the immaculate room; the woman had dark hair and bright violet eyes. Heraklea had never seen eyes that color before.

  She didn’t need a map to tell her where she was: this was Mount Olympus, home of the gods, and these two were Zeus and Hera, the king and queen. Heraklea pulled her sheet more firmly around her and wished she were properly dressed. Technically, Zeus was her father or, at least, he had sown his seed in her mother’s womb under false pretenses. Amphitryon was her father, as far as she was concerned. But her feelings on the matter probably weren’t going to be much use with Hera, who was notoriously jealous of Zeus’ conquests and notoriously nasty to the subsequent offspring.

  “First she fucks half of Greece, then you try and marry her off and she fucks her husband half to death,” Hera continued, looking down at Heraklea like she was a particularly revolting insect.

  Zeus leaned on one fist, ignoring Hera. “What are we going to do with you?” he said.

  Silence. Heraklea looked from one to the other and back again. “Is Lykos dead?” she finally asked, her voice sounding tiny in the great hall.

  “Not yet,” said Hera. “Just fucked into a coma. Never seen anything like it. Have you, darling? You’ve got more experience in that sort of thing.”

  Zeus frowned and continued to ignore his wife. “It’s unfortunate you turned out female. Everyone expects this behavior of a rich young man.”

  “Helen never acted like this,” Hera said.

  “I’m sorry,” Heraklea said, tearing up. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  “No,” rumbled Zeus. “But still, you must atone.”

  “King Eurystheus has been having a lot of problems lately, down in Argos,” Hera said. “He could use some help killing monsters.”

  “Hmm, yes,” Zeus said. “Maybe that will exhaust you.”

  Hera smirked, her beautiful face an ill-concealed mask of rage. “He’s a very demanding man,” she said. “You’re to do anything and everything that he asks of you, or you’ll be his servant forever.”

  “Go then,” Zeus said, and with a wave of his hand, golden light filled Heraklea’s vision again, and when she could see again, she found herself in a smaller room, though still grand, in front of another throne, a surprised-looking king on it.

  It was only a week before Heraklea was invited to dine with the king again. Well, she thought, as the messenger left, “invited” was a strong word. “Told” was more like it. “Informed.” The man had said the word “request,” true, but there was no request there. What the king wanted, the king got.

  “I need a belt,” said the king that night, as they ate roasted rabbit and drank red wine. In the corner of the king’s private dining room lurked two guards, both blank-faced and holding spears, both very lightly dressed in the hot summer. As the king went on about the political problems of Rhodes, Klea had taken to watching the two of them, hoping the gentle breeze coming in through the windows would lift their skirts just enough for her to get a nice glimpse of cock.

  She’d tried to seduce them, of course, but it had never worked. It didn’t stop her from looking.

  “Can you buy a belt?” Klea said, after a moment of silence. She knew it wasn’t the right response—yes, of course, the king of Rhodes could buy a belt—but she had no idea what he was getting at. That’s what all her conversations with him were like: he’d hint and hint and hint, until it finally turned out that he was sending her off to do a task for him.

  The task, invariably, involved fucking, and that was why Klea never said no. The last time, for example, she’d been held down by someone who was half-man, half-giant, fucked hard, and had orgasmed to within an inch of her life.

  “The belt is a gift,” the king said. He chewed his rabbit and didn’t elaborate.

  “For who?” Klea pushed. He didn’t demand the same formalities of her that he did of most of his subjects, and she didn’t give them.

  “A woman in court,” he said lightly.

  Klea felt like she’d swallowed a stone. She rested both her hands on the table and stared into the flame of a candle for seconds on end: he was giving some other woman a gift? Who? Why? Was he courting her?

  And most importantly: why did Heraklea care? She’d been off fucking everything and everyone for two months now. It was a little late, she reminded herself, to be bothered if the king was interested in someone else.

  “The belt currently belongs to the queen of the Amazons,” he went on, obviously pretending not to notice Klea’s reaction to his news. “Her name is Hippolyta.”

  “And I’m to go get it,” Klea said. She knew the drill by now.

  “I’m sending you as a diplomat,” the king said. “Not a military detachment.”

  They made eye contact over the table.

  “What sort of diplomat?” Klea asked, trying to sound casual.

  “The regular kind,” he said. “We’ve been on good terms for years. I have a small, sacred icon you’re to offer in return for the belt. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s apparently quite sacred to the Amazons.”

  He snapped his fingers and a young servant walked in, placed a stone statue on the table in front of Klea, and left.

  It was a dick. There was nothing else to say about the sacred icon: eight, maybe nine inches long, cylindrical, a head-like bulb at one end. Absolutely, certainly a dick.

  Klea held it up, pretending to examine it. “Fascinating,” she said.

  “I don’t see what’s so special about it,” the king admitted. “But the Amazons apparently hold these in very high regard.”

  “So I trade the, uh, icon for the belt,” Klea said. When she said the word belt she felt a small fury rise inside her, that some other woman in the kingdom was getting presents that Klea had gotten for her, while she was getting sent off to do dangerous things. Was he having dinner with other women? Was he dropping in on other women while they were naked and bathing? Did he order his guards to report back o
n the sexual exploits of other women?

  Klea held back angry tears. She stood, scooting her chair back from the table.

  “If that’s all, I’ll get going,” she said.

  “Stay for dessert,” the king said. “You don’t need to leave until tomorrow.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  He took a long sip of wine, looking at her. He also stood.

  “Let me escort you back to your quarters,” he said.

  He’d never done that before, and Klea would have thought more of it if she hadn’t been so angry. In her right hand she clutched the penis-icon, and the king offered his other arm. She took it, and he made small talk with her as they traversed the palace halls and it slowly dawned on her what was happening: the king was walking her back to her rooms. The king, who by all accounts was very interested in her sex life, was escorting her to her bedchambers.

  Klea perked up a little, and squeezed the king’s forearm in her hand. It was thick and hard, like a man’s forearm should be.

  At her door, he dismissed the guards who walked around the corner to stand, invisibly.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said. She turned to face him. They were inches apart, and Klea could feel the heat coming off of his body as he looked her up and down in her flimsy linen garment. She lowered her eyes, demurely, she hoped, as her heart beat faster. He leaned one heavily-muscled arm against the door frame.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked, looking up at him. Not many men were taller than she, but he was one of them.

  Her nipples had hardened under her dress, visible through the thin fabric. His eyes flicked down to them, lingered a moment, then looked back up at her.

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  Klea reddened and looked down. What had she been thinking, propositioning the king? What kind of idiot was she?

  He put one finger under her chin and tilted it up, leaning his face close. Klea’s heart hammered again, and she parted her lips, waiting for his to touch hers.

  “Just get the belt,” he whispered.

  Then, he walked away. Klea was in the chambers and slammed the door before he was even out of sight.

  She hated him, hated the way he made her feels, alternately excited and then furious, flattered and horny and then crushed. The penis-icon—who the fuck did he think he was kidding, this was obviously a dildo—was heavy in her hand, and she stomped over to her bed and sat there, turning it over and over.

  Her rage wasn’t going away, but neither was her arousal.

  Klea ran one thumb along the underside of the icon’s ridge—shaped exactly like the head of a cock. It was cool and hard, not warm and soft, but otherwise, it was a dead ringer for a beautiful, girthy cock. She thought it looked a little like the king’s cock, which, admittedly, she’d only seen once, flaccid and in low light, but had been nice to look at nevertheless. Would he be this wide, this long, when he was erect?

  Almost without meaning to, Klea had started touching herself, sliding one hand up her skirt to play with her clit. She rubbed it softly, touching the folds around it, only brushing her fingers across it every so often, feeling the delicious jolt it gave her when she did. She laid back on her bed and ran her hand along her lips, not surprised to find them slick and engorged. Well, she hadn’t been getting much in the way of sex, lately; it turned out that a sexy look from the king and a stone dildo were all she needed to get excited.

  The icon was so smooth it almost felt wet, and even handling it made her ache intensify. She touched her clit again and felt the jolt, but she felt something else: the hunger for something in her cunt, something to satisfy the deep longing there.

  She glanced at the door and the windows: closed, curtains. No one would ever need to know she fucked an icon.

  Klea pulled herself up firmly onto the bed and lay there, one hand on her cunt, the other holding the icon, legs wide open, and placed at her wet, waiting entrance. For a moment she worried that putting stone inside herself might cause some sort of damage, since it was so hard, but pure desire took over her hand and she eased it in, rubbing her clit harder and harder.

  The stone dildo was strange: cold, and utterly solid. While a cock or even a fist had some give to them, being made of flesh, this had none at all, no ability to curve with her vagina. If she moved it at all the effect was instantaneous. She moved the stone cock in slowly, letting it warm up, until she couldn’t take any more of it.

  Klea took a moment to stop rubbing herself and feel her cunt with the stone in it: her pussy lips, spread around the hard rock, wetness still seeping out of her. She used one finger to tap on it a few times and gasped as the vibrations reverberated from deep inside her, sending little lightning bolts of pleasure through her whole body. She slid her hand back to her clit and began rubbing herself again in well-practiced circles, taking the dildo in the other hand.

  Still afraid of hurting herself, Klea moved the big dildo in tiny movements, pulling it out and feeling it sink back in, like her pussy was quicksand, every little motion filling her cunt in ways she had never felt before, the unforgiving stone bringing her to the brink.

  Klea ground her teeth together as she neared orgasm, willing herself not to cry out even as she fucked herself with the stone dildo. Shouting might bring the guards in, so instead she worked herself furiously and bit into her pillow, filling her mouth with cotton.

  The dildo moved once, twice more into her pussy, and then the orgasm slammed into her, jerking her entire body with every touch of her clit as the feeling passed over her, wave after her. Her cunt clenched around the stone dildo so hard that it nearly hurt, its girth utterly unforgiving. When she finally stopped coming, she pulled it out and looked at it: shiny and slick with her juices, so slick it was a little hard to hold. Klea put it down and sighed.

  The next day, Klea put the now-clean icon in a bag, and set out by ship for the Amazon kingdom. Last night she’d done some thinking. The king had sent her on eight missions now, and every one of them had ended in sex; not being an idiot, Klea had some suspicions that he might know about this, and also might expect this one to end in sex as well. Thus, given her status as “diplomat,” and her possession of a “sacred” dildo, she came to one conclusion: it was her job to seduce the Amazonian queen out of her belt. Literally.

  This made Klea nervous. As the guards’ total disinterest in her belied, she wasn’t great at seduction. Previously, she’d never had to go further than, “Hey, wanna fuck?” and nothing else had ever worked. She was especially not sure how to seduce a woman. Were they different, somehow? Was she supposed to wine and dine, and then lay her down on the bearskin in front of the fireplace?

  It was all terribly unclear.

  The ship reached harbor late one afternoon, several days later, and Klea rode up to the Amazonian city just before dinner. She was surprised to find that the king had told the Amazons she was coming—usually, he seemed to forget about formalities like that. Instead, she was seated next to Queen Hippolyta the whole time, and right across from another high-ranking Amazon. Both women were beautiful in a stately way and at least twenty years older than Klea. They wore the traditional Amazon outfit: one shouldered linen with one breast exposed.

  Klea did find the breasts a little distracting. For one thing, both those of the Queen and her high-ranking friend were surprisingly buoyant and round, particularly for their age, with a fullness and weight that Klea thought just begged to be touched. Whenever the women moved, that single breast would wobble and sway, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  Great, she thought. I’m seducing her by just staring at her tits. I don’t think that’s how it works.

  Finally, near the end of the dinner, she realized her plan wasn’t working when the queen said her name, twice, before Klea finally looked up from her bosom.

  “What’s your mission here?” she said in a low, melodious voice.

  Klea cleared her throat. “The king sent me to sug
gest a trade, your highness.”

  “What’s the trade?”

  “Your belt for an icon.”

  The two women exchanged glances, both looking amused.

  “My gold belt?” the queen asked.

  “Yes, your highness,” Klea said. She wondered what she’d done, already, to amuse the two of them so much.

  The women looked at each other one more time. The queen raised her eyebrows and the other woman shrugged. They both looked at her one more time, then at each other. The other woman nodded. Klea wasn’t sure what was going on.

  “Come to my quarters tonight,” the queen said. “Bring the icon. We’ll see what we can work out.”

  The other woman smiled, and took a deep drink of her wine.

  A few hours later, Klea was at the queen’s door, cock-icon in hand. She thought there was no way the queen would actually want the ugly stone thing, but maybe she was supposed to fuck her with it, she thought, and she remembered the odd but arousing way it had felt in her own cunt: wrong and hard, and all the better for it.

  The door opened and the other woman stood there, topless, wearing only a belt with two long strips of cloth hanging from it, one in front and one in back. Klea tried not to stare at her stunning chest: two round, firm globes, the nipples like pert berries, just begging to be licked.

  Unable to think of anything to say, Klea curtsied.

  “Come in,” the woman said.

  Heraklea walked through the door.

  “You’ve probably forgotten my name since the formal introductions,” she said. She had long, black hair with a single gray streak down one side of her face. It only served to make her more striking. “Phoebe, spear-woman to the queen.”

  “There you are,” said a voice from inside, and Klea and Phoebe walked through an entryway and into a larger room. There were two couches and three chairs all arranged around a plush bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire.