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mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-12 01:21 pm
mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-12 01:21 pm
(hotd) no democracy, chapter ten
NO DEMOCRACY, CHAPTER TEN
🐉masterpost🐉
In the fourth moon of her first pregnancy, Rhaenyra, first of her name, trains herself to come from her ass being fucked alone.
That would not make it into the chronicles. That she took her uncle, with his unwanted wife he has not seen in years still in the Vale, as her lover—probably. That many whispered that the child she carried was in fact his and not her husband’s—most likely. But not this. The maesters in their scriptoriums could not imagine this, and if they could, they would not write it down.
Rhaenyra has an office off the Small Council chamber where she handles correspondence and meets with her councilors one-on-one. When Daemon shows up there the next morning she is speaking to Lord Beesbury. He doesn’t allow it to continue long enough to determine what they are discussing and if it is important. “Lord Beesbury, I wish to speak to the queen in private.”
He boggles at Daemon, and then at Rhaenyra, but at his monarch’s quiet, “We will speak more of this matter later on, my lord,” he slowly gathers himself up out of his chair and shuffles from the room.
As soon as the door closes behind him Daemon is unfastening his pants. To Rhaenyra’s look of mild shock, he explains, “I told you last night. Whenever I wanted to fuck that ass, I would find you wherever you were, whatever you were doing, and fuck my dumb little hole. That’s you,” he provides helpfully. “So stand up.”
She stands behind her desk, pupils huge and breath coming fast. She might well be startled. Daemon is usually careful not to infringe on her domain. He knows how fragile her authority is, and knows how much she knows it. He attends to the duties she has delegated to him, to the city, and tries to make himself unobtrusive otherwise. No one believes it of him, is what Daemon knows. They regard his presence at court with nervousness, the well-trained men loyal only to him with trepidation. They do not believe Daemon can really be only loyal to the niece he once dandled on his knee in front of them as a tiny child only for her to grow up and supplant him. He and Rhaenyra know. Perhaps they both also know that it does not always gall—but sometimes it does. They can survive it. He can take his little revenges, pathetic because they are only the ones she happens to enjoy and allow.
Daemon sits down in her chair. He hikes up her skirts and inspects her. She looks a little sore this morning, the poor dear, but of course no bleeding, no tearing. He slides his hand around his waist and cups her unwanted pussy in his palm and gathers up as much spit onto his tongue as he can and expels it onto her raw hole and pushes it into her with his cockhead. Under his hand he swears he feels her heartbeat pick up in her cunt from a mingled panic and excitement, and when he says, “Relax, you can take it,” he also feels the way she unlocks her muscles and wills herself lax, ready to struggle to take him dry. It’s sweet, but he’s become what they always feared, a man who wanders these hallowed halls with all the necessities for sodomizing whatever victim he takes a fancy to already on his person. He doesn’t get her ready with his fingers but when he guides her back onto him with a hand on her hip it's slick enough with oil between him that it takes a couple tries for her rim to catch around him and for him to pop past that initially resistant band of muscle.
“Alright,” he says, working himself gradually inside her as she grunts unattractively, elbows braced on the desk, head low between her arms. “Don’t let me distract you. Attend to your queenly business.”
“Speaking to Lord Beesbury was my queenly business,” she snaps, dropping her head down on the drifts of paper with a thunk. “I’m just your dumb little hole now, uncle,” she says dreamily. “Just a dumb little baby with a sweet little hole for you to fuck…”
He slaps her ass and sneers, “This is who I lost the throne too? A lazy little slut? Loose as a whore?” He slaps his palm over her mound and she only just bites off a yelp that would be audible from the hall. “Tighten up.”
It’s a lie. She’s still so, so tight, he’s sweating and only halfway in her and when she obeys and clenches down it feels like she’s about to snap his dick in two.
“No—I—”
“You’re always whining to me about how much work you have. Surely there’s something else, you little slacker. Are you the queen or are you just a silly little girl, a silly little slut?”
“I’m the queen,” she whimpers, picking up her pen, selecting a paper seemingly at random.
“That’s right. You’re the queen. And you’re my baby, my hole. Show me you can do both. What important court business is that?”
“It’s—um—uh—it’s a petition—ah!—from a group of silk merchants asking for c-customs duties to be lowered…”
Daemon has stood up so he can plow into her with steady thrusts. A blissful tight heat, on every pass into that snug channel. For a moment he is even less capable of coherent speech than she.
“Well, what is your response?”
“To invite them to visit the council to uh—um—to discuss…”
“Get to it then.”
She dips the pen into the inkwell. Daemon holds still so there are no splotches as she sets it to the paper, but she instantly lays it back down and pleads, “Uncle—”
“I should have taken the throne after all. I think you would have preferred that. I think everyone else would too. I would be a very different sort of king and you would lead a very different sort of life. I would still have fucked you full of my heirs,” he grants, rubbing her belly. “I’d keep you pregnant. I’d make an army of heirs for the realm, don’t worry about that. But that’s all you would have to worry your pretty head about. That and keeping my cock warm. Everyone would enjoy it. Just imagine, Beesbury right there, talking about—what were you talking about?”
“The grain tax. What else? I don’t want to imagine Beesbury—”
“I don’t care. I’m the king, and you are my little niece-wife, and whenever I’m being bored out of my skull by Beesbury going on again about the grain tax, I summon you. You’re free, all you do all day is eat sweets and play with your little pussy and grow your king sweet babies, and you saunter in—naked, I’ve gotten rid of all your clothes, and you run around the Red Keep naked just as you liked to do for about six months when you were four, we couldn’t keep clothes on you, but it doesn’t even make him blink, he’s used to it—in nothing but my collar—” he reaches around and fists his necklace so it cuts into her throat “and bounce your ass on my cock, stroke this baby-fat belly, pinch those baby-fat tits—”
So much for ink splotches. Now the queen drools onto the paper meant to receive the invitation to the silk merchant’s guild.
Rhaenyra collapses. Only Daemon’s hands on her and the desk against her front keep her from sliding to the floor as her thighs shake. His weight pins her in place as he snaps his hips harder into her. She bursts into tears.
“No, it’s fine,” she hiccups, preempting any concern. “I just thought surely that would do it, make me come—”
Her entire body quivers in desperation at her denial already, and it hasn’t even been a full day. Daemon grins. “You like that?” he says, his own orgasm right there, waiting hot behind his navel to flow easily into her. “Being my dumb little pet, making my cock happy?”
“Not having to do anything,” Rhaenyra wails. “I’m so tired.”
Her eyes have closed. She buries her head in her arms and he lets her.
“You just have to ask,” he says. “You ask, anytime, you know you just have to ask. If it ever gets to be too much for a little girl, I’m your uncle, you’re my baby niece, I’ll take care of everything, I’ll usurp you quick as you please—”
His queen laughs, sniffles. “Okay, uncle,” she whispers.
He smoothes her hair back from her face. She’s sweet, limp. “But just for now, my dumb little hole, don’t worry about a thing, you just stay there—mm—right there, good girl, just stay still and do nothing and make your uncle come—”
In the end he pulls out and releases into a handkerchief—convenienient receptacles for come being something he also has on his person—so when he twitches her skirts neats and prepares to leave her so she can call Lyman back in, he isn’t leaking from her in addition to having chafed her a bit.
“Maybe I don’t want to have to ask,” Rhaenyra says with dark circles under her eyes. He’ll have to hold off on fucking her again for a while, not only for the integrity of her orifices but for the sake of her sleep. “Maybe I just want you to take it. I just want you to take care of everything, but I can’t ask, or I don’t even know that’s what I want. You need to know better than me. I won’t ask, not ever. I can’t.”
“Good,” Daemon says from the doorway. “I lied just now. I’d hate to have to fail you. It would be the first time I could not satisfy a request you made of me. Don’t make me do that, hm?”
-
“That bad?” Daemon asks, sniffing at himself with a nose deadened to Flea Bottom stink when he arrives in Rhaenyra’s chamber one evening to a hot bath steaming in the middle of the room, his niece standing in her robe beside it. It’s for him, apparently.
“No. Well. Yes. But I like it.” She reddens. “I just want to give you a bath.”
He shrugs. “I could certainly use one. Alright.”
He slips into the water. It feels wonderful. His aching muscles unclench.
Rhaenyra is solemn, still and luminous with some sacred duty like the temple attendants in the baths of Volantis. She washes his arms, chest, groin. She massages his fingers against his scalp as she cleans his hair until he shivers.
“Can I—can I brush your hair?” she asks, comb in hand, as he stands before her toweling off. Her lips quirk. “You said I should always ask.”
So Daemon sits on a cushion on the floor while his little niece sits on the couch and brushes his hair. Very careful, very gentle. The bath still flushes his limbs warm. He could go to sleep like this.
His hair now rests on his shoulders. He doesn’t like it this length, but there’s no other way to get it to what it was in Rhaenyra’s childhood, which she has stated her firm fondness for, partiality to. I liked that we looked alike.
“Pretty, pretty uncle,” she says under her breath.
“Is that all you wanted to ask?”
“I want to fuck you,” she says with a frankness at odd with her shyness this evening. “But I still—I’m your baby. I need to be your baby.”
“Do you think you can’t be the baby of—a man like that?”
“That’s not it.”
Daemon thinks he might understand. Doesn’t he know what it is, to be inside her? Her whole body, her whole being, on his cock, his fingers. Hadn’t he been terrified the first time? Hadn’t he trembled? It meant something. He has ceded authority to her, out there in the world. But here he rules her and she likes it. She holds it dear. So does he, and yet—Rhaenyra inside him. Perhaps he wants to cede more.
“Maybe—”
“You used to bring me so many presents,” she says, working a small braid into his hair. “You brought me so many dolls. Wood, cloth. Babies to rock. Dolls with rotating joints. One that could even cry, some old lost magic, do you remember? And I put them in the cupboard, and I took them down. And you went away—” She takes a deep breath. “But now—a baby should still have a pretty doll, don’t you think?”
He turns around to face her. The braid unwinds without her fingers to hold it fast. A long silence. “I’m a doll,” he prompts. “I can move, like that automaton I got you. But you must wind the key. My baby has to set her pretty doll in motion.”
Rhaenyra shifts in place. “You should go—go lay on the bed.”
Daemon stands up, still nude. “This is quite an unadorned doll. I remember you liked all the silks I brought you to dress them in.” He swallows. “And I seem to recall you thought this extended to the man who brought them to you.”
His niece, age four, draping him in her mother’s silks, her pearls. Aemma laughing, Viserys walking in and his face going thunderous. Pretty, pretty uncle.
She must remember the same thing. She crosses to an enameled box on a table and fishes out some Braavosi seed pearls. Her mother’s. Daemon recognizes them because they’d been a gift to Aemma when he’d finally come home from Essos. She wraps them around Daemon’s throat and arches up on her toes to kiss him. “You speak a lot, for a doll,” she chides, smiling.
“Those gifts I spent so much money on sometimes came with some complicated instructions,” he reminds her.
“Lay on the bed,” she instructs with more confidence. It is not the confidence of the queen who expects her commands to be obeyed, but that of the bossy little girl whose besotted uncle would let her have anything she might want.
He is limp in more ways than one, but at this point no disclaimers are required. She plays with him, stroking the head of his cock with her fingers, kissing it, nuzzling it with her nose, sucking his balls into her mouth like the hard sticky sour Myrish candies she liked to roll in her cheek, staining her tongue cherry red, lemon yellow. He does nothing. It all goes back to his brother. He’d gone dead under him, as inanimate as any doll, and he’d hated it, and he still wasn’t a doll, he wasn’t dead, because dolls didn’t feel like this, this melting bliss when she nudges his knees apart and pushes one leg toward his chest so she can circle the pads of her first two fingers slowly over his asshole to warm him up with a practiced ease that comes not from having done it before herself but from Daemon taking such good care of her, and now he craves it with an ache like those old soldiers report in vanished limbs, and he does not hate it with her.
“What a pretty doll,” she sighs, watching closely as those two fingers thrust gently into him. “What a lucky baby I am, for uncle to give me such a pretty doll to play with.”
She hasn’t come in nearly a week, which probably has something to do with the nearly crazed look of lust in her eyes and the fact she gets on hands and knees like a dog to lick at the place her fingers breach him with a moan. Rhaenyra inside him. He grips the pearls in his hand so the lustrous orbs go skin-warm, skin-smooth.
“Your doll is staying nice and soft and pretty for his baby, but he can still—do you want to know how to make your doll come—”
“So soft,” she murmurs as her soft wet tongue swipes against where he’s soft, open. “So nice. Yes, please, tell your baby how to make her doll come.”
The dolls had come with instructions. She could make them cry, make them wet themselves, open up their bellies to put a little baby in it and then open them up to take them out. Daemon talks his spoiled baby through rotating her wrist, stroking her fingers up toward his navel until they catch on the small button that makes him open his mouth and wail, entire body jolting. It’s so much, almost too much. She grins. She was not gentle with most of her toys, except, Aemma reported, the ones Daemon gave her, at least at first. She cradled them reverently in her arms. She brushed their hair carefully so it did not tangle. Then her uncle left, and their shattered porcelain faces on the flagstones might cut a maid’s foot to ribbons.
This doll is forever. She holds the key to the cupboard. She is relentless, rubbing at him with firm motions, and delicate, so delicate, kissing his knee, biting her lip, saying, “Am I—am I doing it right, uncle, am I going to make my pretty doll come?”
Her doll can’t speak. It tears through him. His entire body bows up off the bed. His orgasm obliterates her, his body, the room around him, sensation so intense it destroys sensation, that he knows what it must be like to be a doll, to feel nothing for a moment, to be so loved, so pawed at, toyed with, kissed, stroked, petted, and to feel nothing, to have unfeeling limbs of wax. When he comes back to himself his cock is still spurting, that thin, watery release that comes in a shocking volume, sore with it, on his abdomen, down his thighs, on the sheets, over Rhaenyra’s baby-fat breasts and belly. His face is slick with tears.
Another blank moment. When he returns again he’s wiping at his cheeks with a gasp and Rhaenyra, who has crawled beside him, leaves off from where she’s begun to braid his hair again to kiss the salt from his fingers. “Those were always your baby’s favorites. The ones who did something, who had pretty, pretty hair and who I could dress in pretty clothes, but who were real, because they had eyes that cried, the ones who came with swords and had arms and legs that could run, pretty baby dolls that gave me more pretty babies, dolls that cry and come all over themselves and tell me what to do, those are my favorites, I promise.”
🐉masterpost🐉
In the fourth moon of her first pregnancy, Rhaenyra, first of her name, trains herself to come from her ass being fucked alone.
That would not make it into the chronicles. That she took her uncle, with his unwanted wife he has not seen in years still in the Vale, as her lover—probably. That many whispered that the child she carried was in fact his and not her husband’s—most likely. But not this. The maesters in their scriptoriums could not imagine this, and if they could, they would not write it down.
Rhaenyra has an office off the Small Council chamber where she handles correspondence and meets with her councilors one-on-one. When Daemon shows up there the next morning she is speaking to Lord Beesbury. He doesn’t allow it to continue long enough to determine what they are discussing and if it is important. “Lord Beesbury, I wish to speak to the queen in private.”
He boggles at Daemon, and then at Rhaenyra, but at his monarch’s quiet, “We will speak more of this matter later on, my lord,” he slowly gathers himself up out of his chair and shuffles from the room.
As soon as the door closes behind him Daemon is unfastening his pants. To Rhaenyra’s look of mild shock, he explains, “I told you last night. Whenever I wanted to fuck that ass, I would find you wherever you were, whatever you were doing, and fuck my dumb little hole. That’s you,” he provides helpfully. “So stand up.”
She stands behind her desk, pupils huge and breath coming fast. She might well be startled. Daemon is usually careful not to infringe on her domain. He knows how fragile her authority is, and knows how much she knows it. He attends to the duties she has delegated to him, to the city, and tries to make himself unobtrusive otherwise. No one believes it of him, is what Daemon knows. They regard his presence at court with nervousness, the well-trained men loyal only to him with trepidation. They do not believe Daemon can really be only loyal to the niece he once dandled on his knee in front of them as a tiny child only for her to grow up and supplant him. He and Rhaenyra know. Perhaps they both also know that it does not always gall—but sometimes it does. They can survive it. He can take his little revenges, pathetic because they are only the ones she happens to enjoy and allow.
Daemon sits down in her chair. He hikes up her skirts and inspects her. She looks a little sore this morning, the poor dear, but of course no bleeding, no tearing. He slides his hand around his waist and cups her unwanted pussy in his palm and gathers up as much spit onto his tongue as he can and expels it onto her raw hole and pushes it into her with his cockhead. Under his hand he swears he feels her heartbeat pick up in her cunt from a mingled panic and excitement, and when he says, “Relax, you can take it,” he also feels the way she unlocks her muscles and wills herself lax, ready to struggle to take him dry. It’s sweet, but he’s become what they always feared, a man who wanders these hallowed halls with all the necessities for sodomizing whatever victim he takes a fancy to already on his person. He doesn’t get her ready with his fingers but when he guides her back onto him with a hand on her hip it's slick enough with oil between him that it takes a couple tries for her rim to catch around him and for him to pop past that initially resistant band of muscle.
“Alright,” he says, working himself gradually inside her as she grunts unattractively, elbows braced on the desk, head low between her arms. “Don’t let me distract you. Attend to your queenly business.”
“Speaking to Lord Beesbury was my queenly business,” she snaps, dropping her head down on the drifts of paper with a thunk. “I’m just your dumb little hole now, uncle,” she says dreamily. “Just a dumb little baby with a sweet little hole for you to fuck…”
He slaps her ass and sneers, “This is who I lost the throne too? A lazy little slut? Loose as a whore?” He slaps his palm over her mound and she only just bites off a yelp that would be audible from the hall. “Tighten up.”
It’s a lie. She’s still so, so tight, he’s sweating and only halfway in her and when she obeys and clenches down it feels like she’s about to snap his dick in two.
“No—I—”
“You’re always whining to me about how much work you have. Surely there’s something else, you little slacker. Are you the queen or are you just a silly little girl, a silly little slut?”
“I’m the queen,” she whimpers, picking up her pen, selecting a paper seemingly at random.
“That’s right. You’re the queen. And you’re my baby, my hole. Show me you can do both. What important court business is that?”
“It’s—um—uh—it’s a petition—ah!—from a group of silk merchants asking for c-customs duties to be lowered…”
Daemon has stood up so he can plow into her with steady thrusts. A blissful tight heat, on every pass into that snug channel. For a moment he is even less capable of coherent speech than she.
“Well, what is your response?”
“To invite them to visit the council to uh—um—to discuss…”
“Get to it then.”
She dips the pen into the inkwell. Daemon holds still so there are no splotches as she sets it to the paper, but she instantly lays it back down and pleads, “Uncle—”
“I should have taken the throne after all. I think you would have preferred that. I think everyone else would too. I would be a very different sort of king and you would lead a very different sort of life. I would still have fucked you full of my heirs,” he grants, rubbing her belly. “I’d keep you pregnant. I’d make an army of heirs for the realm, don’t worry about that. But that’s all you would have to worry your pretty head about. That and keeping my cock warm. Everyone would enjoy it. Just imagine, Beesbury right there, talking about—what were you talking about?”
“The grain tax. What else? I don’t want to imagine Beesbury—”
“I don’t care. I’m the king, and you are my little niece-wife, and whenever I’m being bored out of my skull by Beesbury going on again about the grain tax, I summon you. You’re free, all you do all day is eat sweets and play with your little pussy and grow your king sweet babies, and you saunter in—naked, I’ve gotten rid of all your clothes, and you run around the Red Keep naked just as you liked to do for about six months when you were four, we couldn’t keep clothes on you, but it doesn’t even make him blink, he’s used to it—in nothing but my collar—” he reaches around and fists his necklace so it cuts into her throat “and bounce your ass on my cock, stroke this baby-fat belly, pinch those baby-fat tits—”
So much for ink splotches. Now the queen drools onto the paper meant to receive the invitation to the silk merchant’s guild.
Rhaenyra collapses. Only Daemon’s hands on her and the desk against her front keep her from sliding to the floor as her thighs shake. His weight pins her in place as he snaps his hips harder into her. She bursts into tears.
“No, it’s fine,” she hiccups, preempting any concern. “I just thought surely that would do it, make me come—”
Her entire body quivers in desperation at her denial already, and it hasn’t even been a full day. Daemon grins. “You like that?” he says, his own orgasm right there, waiting hot behind his navel to flow easily into her. “Being my dumb little pet, making my cock happy?”
“Not having to do anything,” Rhaenyra wails. “I’m so tired.”
Her eyes have closed. She buries her head in her arms and he lets her.
“You just have to ask,” he says. “You ask, anytime, you know you just have to ask. If it ever gets to be too much for a little girl, I’m your uncle, you’re my baby niece, I’ll take care of everything, I’ll usurp you quick as you please—”
His queen laughs, sniffles. “Okay, uncle,” she whispers.
He smoothes her hair back from her face. She’s sweet, limp. “But just for now, my dumb little hole, don’t worry about a thing, you just stay there—mm—right there, good girl, just stay still and do nothing and make your uncle come—”
In the end he pulls out and releases into a handkerchief—convenienient receptacles for come being something he also has on his person—so when he twitches her skirts neats and prepares to leave her so she can call Lyman back in, he isn’t leaking from her in addition to having chafed her a bit.
“Maybe I don’t want to have to ask,” Rhaenyra says with dark circles under her eyes. He’ll have to hold off on fucking her again for a while, not only for the integrity of her orifices but for the sake of her sleep. “Maybe I just want you to take it. I just want you to take care of everything, but I can’t ask, or I don’t even know that’s what I want. You need to know better than me. I won’t ask, not ever. I can’t.”
“Good,” Daemon says from the doorway. “I lied just now. I’d hate to have to fail you. It would be the first time I could not satisfy a request you made of me. Don’t make me do that, hm?”
-
“That bad?” Daemon asks, sniffing at himself with a nose deadened to Flea Bottom stink when he arrives in Rhaenyra’s chamber one evening to a hot bath steaming in the middle of the room, his niece standing in her robe beside it. It’s for him, apparently.
“No. Well. Yes. But I like it.” She reddens. “I just want to give you a bath.”
He shrugs. “I could certainly use one. Alright.”
He slips into the water. It feels wonderful. His aching muscles unclench.
Rhaenyra is solemn, still and luminous with some sacred duty like the temple attendants in the baths of Volantis. She washes his arms, chest, groin. She massages his fingers against his scalp as she cleans his hair until he shivers.
“Can I—can I brush your hair?” she asks, comb in hand, as he stands before her toweling off. Her lips quirk. “You said I should always ask.”
So Daemon sits on a cushion on the floor while his little niece sits on the couch and brushes his hair. Very careful, very gentle. The bath still flushes his limbs warm. He could go to sleep like this.
His hair now rests on his shoulders. He doesn’t like it this length, but there’s no other way to get it to what it was in Rhaenyra’s childhood, which she has stated her firm fondness for, partiality to. I liked that we looked alike.
“Pretty, pretty uncle,” she says under her breath.
“Is that all you wanted to ask?”
“I want to fuck you,” she says with a frankness at odd with her shyness this evening. “But I still—I’m your baby. I need to be your baby.”
“Do you think you can’t be the baby of—a man like that?”
“That’s not it.”
Daemon thinks he might understand. Doesn’t he know what it is, to be inside her? Her whole body, her whole being, on his cock, his fingers. Hadn’t he been terrified the first time? Hadn’t he trembled? It meant something. He has ceded authority to her, out there in the world. But here he rules her and she likes it. She holds it dear. So does he, and yet—Rhaenyra inside him. Perhaps he wants to cede more.
“Maybe—”
“You used to bring me so many presents,” she says, working a small braid into his hair. “You brought me so many dolls. Wood, cloth. Babies to rock. Dolls with rotating joints. One that could even cry, some old lost magic, do you remember? And I put them in the cupboard, and I took them down. And you went away—” She takes a deep breath. “But now—a baby should still have a pretty doll, don’t you think?”
He turns around to face her. The braid unwinds without her fingers to hold it fast. A long silence. “I’m a doll,” he prompts. “I can move, like that automaton I got you. But you must wind the key. My baby has to set her pretty doll in motion.”
Rhaenyra shifts in place. “You should go—go lay on the bed.”
Daemon stands up, still nude. “This is quite an unadorned doll. I remember you liked all the silks I brought you to dress them in.” He swallows. “And I seem to recall you thought this extended to the man who brought them to you.”
His niece, age four, draping him in her mother’s silks, her pearls. Aemma laughing, Viserys walking in and his face going thunderous. Pretty, pretty uncle.
She must remember the same thing. She crosses to an enameled box on a table and fishes out some Braavosi seed pearls. Her mother’s. Daemon recognizes them because they’d been a gift to Aemma when he’d finally come home from Essos. She wraps them around Daemon’s throat and arches up on her toes to kiss him. “You speak a lot, for a doll,” she chides, smiling.
“Those gifts I spent so much money on sometimes came with some complicated instructions,” he reminds her.
“Lay on the bed,” she instructs with more confidence. It is not the confidence of the queen who expects her commands to be obeyed, but that of the bossy little girl whose besotted uncle would let her have anything she might want.
He is limp in more ways than one, but at this point no disclaimers are required. She plays with him, stroking the head of his cock with her fingers, kissing it, nuzzling it with her nose, sucking his balls into her mouth like the hard sticky sour Myrish candies she liked to roll in her cheek, staining her tongue cherry red, lemon yellow. He does nothing. It all goes back to his brother. He’d gone dead under him, as inanimate as any doll, and he’d hated it, and he still wasn’t a doll, he wasn’t dead, because dolls didn’t feel like this, this melting bliss when she nudges his knees apart and pushes one leg toward his chest so she can circle the pads of her first two fingers slowly over his asshole to warm him up with a practiced ease that comes not from having done it before herself but from Daemon taking such good care of her, and now he craves it with an ache like those old soldiers report in vanished limbs, and he does not hate it with her.
“What a pretty doll,” she sighs, watching closely as those two fingers thrust gently into him. “What a lucky baby I am, for uncle to give me such a pretty doll to play with.”
She hasn’t come in nearly a week, which probably has something to do with the nearly crazed look of lust in her eyes and the fact she gets on hands and knees like a dog to lick at the place her fingers breach him with a moan. Rhaenyra inside him. He grips the pearls in his hand so the lustrous orbs go skin-warm, skin-smooth.
“Your doll is staying nice and soft and pretty for his baby, but he can still—do you want to know how to make your doll come—”
“So soft,” she murmurs as her soft wet tongue swipes against where he’s soft, open. “So nice. Yes, please, tell your baby how to make her doll come.”
The dolls had come with instructions. She could make them cry, make them wet themselves, open up their bellies to put a little baby in it and then open them up to take them out. Daemon talks his spoiled baby through rotating her wrist, stroking her fingers up toward his navel until they catch on the small button that makes him open his mouth and wail, entire body jolting. It’s so much, almost too much. She grins. She was not gentle with most of her toys, except, Aemma reported, the ones Daemon gave her, at least at first. She cradled them reverently in her arms. She brushed their hair carefully so it did not tangle. Then her uncle left, and their shattered porcelain faces on the flagstones might cut a maid’s foot to ribbons.
This doll is forever. She holds the key to the cupboard. She is relentless, rubbing at him with firm motions, and delicate, so delicate, kissing his knee, biting her lip, saying, “Am I—am I doing it right, uncle, am I going to make my pretty doll come?”
Her doll can’t speak. It tears through him. His entire body bows up off the bed. His orgasm obliterates her, his body, the room around him, sensation so intense it destroys sensation, that he knows what it must be like to be a doll, to feel nothing for a moment, to be so loved, so pawed at, toyed with, kissed, stroked, petted, and to feel nothing, to have unfeeling limbs of wax. When he comes back to himself his cock is still spurting, that thin, watery release that comes in a shocking volume, sore with it, on his abdomen, down his thighs, on the sheets, over Rhaenyra’s baby-fat breasts and belly. His face is slick with tears.
Another blank moment. When he returns again he’s wiping at his cheeks with a gasp and Rhaenyra, who has crawled beside him, leaves off from where she’s begun to braid his hair again to kiss the salt from his fingers. “Those were always your baby’s favorites. The ones who did something, who had pretty, pretty hair and who I could dress in pretty clothes, but who were real, because they had eyes that cried, the ones who came with swords and had arms and legs that could run, pretty baby dolls that gave me more pretty babies, dolls that cry and come all over themselves and tell me what to do, those are my favorites, I promise.”