She sauntered in like a venomous snake, her lips as red as cherries, her face as white as a corpse's. She stared at him with those azure eyes of hers, the lust hidden yet noticeable. He tried to look away, to turn as if her mere presence didn't spark his interest—but it did, oh, good Lord, it did. Nervousness escaped his body in the form of slick sweat. It slid down the side of his face as he swallowed thickly for the nth time, trying to sigh out the emotions that were brewing inside of him, stronger and stronger that it felt as if it could devour him like the last piece of food in existence.
He clenched and unclenched his hands, too, but it was futile because he knew that she knew, and he was certain that she'd get what she came for, anyway. He stayed seated on the cold floor whilst looking at her wrists that were clad in jewels of all shapes and sizes, then he looked at his own—cuffed, tied like a dog.
Fear was evident, and she did nothing but watch his every move, piercing him with her gaze that was as cold as ice, and was as sharp as the sword he used to draw. Soon after, she straddled him like a horseman, him being the pathetic horse, vulnerable against his owner. He tried to move his hands, but he couldn't—because it was chained to the wall behind him, leaving him defenseless.
Her fingers traced his jaw line ever so slowly that he thought he would melt; it sent shivers down his spine. He felt hot, and it was quite ironic since the dungeon was always damp, and cold—why was he so... warm?
"Traitor," she addressed him in the most alluring tone he had ever heard in his life. "Oh, you bad man."
He gulped. "Your Majesty,"
She leaned in closer, so close that he could feel her warm breath dance on the surface of his cheek. "Make love to me like you used to." she said. "I know you'd be happy to oblige."
He shook his hands that were then behind his back—not ecstatically, but enough to let the chains' metallic noise reverberate throughout the entire cell. "I can't." he shrugged. "But if you unlock these," he looked at her smugly. "maybe I will."
She stifled a sarcastic chuckle at his retort. "Do you think I'm that stupid—that I would let you go?"
"Yes, Your Highness." He said suddenly, mocking her with her own wretched title. "I do, because I know you're that desperate."
She grimaced, her teeth grinded together. With a hand, she slapped his cheek, slapped it hard that it turned pink a few moments after the collision. But he was still smug, staring at her like a connoisseur who knew his game like the back of his hand. And she supposed that maybe he was—because he was the master of the cell, not her.
His words were too much, he was too much, that a mere image of his face in her mind alone had made her reach the brink of her long patience effortlessly. And so she raged, tearing off his ragged clothes, some of its buttons falling off to its inevitable doom with the floor. Then she kissed him, kissed him as hard as how she slapped him earlier, her eyes closed as the sensations overpowered her like a three-headed lion to a piece of meat.
Her head was a foggy mess as the sounds of his chains only made her want to pull him closer.
Unlike hers, though, his mind was as clear as a piece of crystal. It was unexpected, he thought he'd be as intoxicated as her but no, he wasn't. He was nowhere near that; instead, he stayed sane, but was still hoping he'd get the chance to wrap his arms around her—if only these blasted chains would release their tight grip on him.
Slowly, her hands traveled down, down till it was finally atop the bulge that could only grow bigger at each passing moments. She fidgeted, teasing him, and her touch had made him shiver whilst she moaned.
She opened his zipper soon after, his belt discarded like one of the contracts that had failed to catch her interest. Then out, it sprung. It was then celebrating its newly-acquired freedom from the clothes it had been entrapped in, and she felt the urge kick in at the sight of it, the need she'd been craving for days. And so she lowered herself, letting it enter.
The profanities and moans that escaped them were like music to her ears, luring her into the darkness, into oblivion. Had she been selfish? Or a coward? Or was this really the fate He had designed for her—the monarch who wanted a traitor?
She continued with her pace, torturing him like the prisoner that he was. Every move hurt like multiple nails stabbing her gut, painful but bearable. But she wanted it, all of it, and she deserved it, too—but at the back of her fickle mind, she was scared, terrified even. Because she knew it was the last time she'd...
She brushed the thought off of her mind as her fingers drew long red marks across his back, and so had her teeth on his neck and collarbone—in the form of bites. The emotions that bursted were gratifying; she felt free, sated, exhausted.
They collapsed against the stone floor, his hands still cuffed behind him, and her atop his rigid body where she soon fell asleep like a harmless little infant. Her breaths were as calm as the night, and he couldn't bear seeing her that way that he forced his mind to turn away from the thought of her. The truth was unacceptable, it was depressing, because he knew that at one point, he genuinely did fell in love with her.
But he knew from the start the she never loved him back; he was only the queen's toy, after all.
With his heart beating melodies, he inched closer and closer to her ear.
"How did you know?
I needed someone like you in my life
That there was an empty space in my heart
You came at the right time in my life"
He whispered as he buried his face in the depths of her soft hair, and fell into a deep, dreamless asleep. "I'm going to miss you."
When the moon sunk and the rays of sunlight from the small window hit Her Majesty's pallor, her eyes flickered open. A sharp lightning of realization struck her as she gazed upon the man beneath her pristine body, his eyes shut due to the drowsiness that was still reigning over him like a tower. Her chest ached for him, seeing him in that state. Nonetheless, she dragged herself off of him to stand, her fingers busy fixing her dress to look at least a tidbit presentable for whoever might see her sneak back into her room. She was the queen, after all.
With a final glance, her eyes full of pity, she closed the gate of his cell.
She never thought she'd ever get involved in something as ludicrous as a fairy tale, never thought her fairy tale was actually a tragic story mended by fate. Instead of a knight in shining armor, or a prince, she got a poor traitor whose days were counted when they met.
Love—though real—wasn't an option; she had duties to do, responsibilities to fulfill. And a traitor was never meant for a queen, anyway.
Through the thick clouds of doubt, and shaking fingers, and drops of tears, she gripped the quill tighter.
The traitor must be hanged for his crimes.
And the only thing missing was her signature on the paper that was begging to be signed.
