Clara hissed a breath in as she rubbed salve on a particularly sensitive area. It stung initially but then provided relief. The delicacy of her fingertips around the soft warm flesh was providing more than relief. It was stimulating. Milk dribbled out of her teat and down her engorged breasts, beading as it tumbled down her thin stomach. There she was, sitting on a grand bed, in a chamber she could have never dreamed of, rubbing her bruised nipples. The soft fabric of her comforter filled with down, on a mattress filled with goose down and imported cotton from India, was heaven. She knew she was lucky to be in the service of the King.
A change in the
air that breezed through her chamber caused Clara to look up from her
breast. Where her door had been closed it was now open, the shadow of
a man standing before her in the candlelight. She instinctively
pulled her shirt up over her breasts, and peered at the man. Men
stood around her day and night while she was exposed, letting the
little bastard drink from her udders. It should not have bothered her
but in her chamber, it was private.
“Please,” the
hearty deep voice called as the shadow walked towards her,
“continue.”
The King.
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