I.i
Around you lay the bodies of your comrades, either unconscious or incapitated. You feel regret and anger, but mostly soreness. You stayed to the side, avoiding the worst of the brawl, occassionally knocking down someone who came close to attacking you. You didn't manage to avoid all blows, however. The woman, or rather goddess, in front of you is laughing at the scene she's caused.
A Princess of Passion, and she's a sight to behold. The flowing white gown barely conceals her hourglass figure, complementing her fair skin. It is sheer, teasing you with glimpses of the long legs and nimble waist under it. The back is open and two strips of fabric cover her chest, scandalizing and enticing. She is barefoot, but her glittering earrings and sigil ring betray her royal heritage. You dare not look her in the face: soft, delicate lips shimmering with gloss, curling auburn hair, soothing grey eyes, and sculpted features would make you lose sense in much the same manner as your erstwhile allies.
You look around for anything that might serve you in your coming fight against the beauty. A canopy bed with comfy cushions offers nothing, the bottles of cosmetics on the nightstand might offer something to throw, the door is firmly sealed by whatever witchcraft the princess is capable of, and all the windows are barred. You could wield a chair as a weapon or pull the carpet from under her, break the standing mirror over her head, anything to break the impeccable and intimidating posture she strikes.
Conflicting thoughts are clashing in your head. Act now, fight, one voice says. The longer you wait, the more opportunities she has to set her claws in you. Flee, another voice says. You saw what she did to a group of men confident that could take her on. One sentence and you all turned on each other, so turned on were you. A final voice, feminine strangely enough, says that you should fuck her. Take her up on the offer, you won fair and square.
"I can sense your lust," the last voice says with a sound like crystal, now coming from the mouth of the princess herself. She brushes away a strand of hair, you can't help but look, and you're rooted to the spot when your eyes cross each other. She's beautiful, kind, generous, playful, and antsy. "You're just dying for me to have my way with you," she teases, and you blush and avert your eyes. Is she a mind reader or are you just that obvious?
Your imagination is triggered. You fight her, not really putting in any effort, telegraphing your punches while half-heartedly swerving away from her kisses. Inevitably, she catches you in the mouth with her own, sending an explosion of sensations off across your body. She kisses you rhytmically, chipping away your resistance, sculpting you into her puppet by ripping off your tunic and teasingly grinding against your most intimate parts. Love, admiration, awe, confusion, but mostly lust, all of these blend to throw you for a loop and make you helpless against her charms. You do not fight back once she leads you to the bed, too blissful to know better. She takes her time before inserting your cock into her sheath, as if put off the last chocolate in a box. She blows kisses while she rides you like a stallion that needs to be broken in, the soft projectiles breaking your will whenever the physical pleasure pulls your mind back into reality too much. Before the climax occurs in your imagination, a giggle snaps you out of it. Apparently she could see you drooling, knowing where your lust led your brain. No actions from her and you're already this lost, you panic.
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