Elizabeth stared into the darkness of her bedchamber at Greenwich Palace, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the ornate Tudor furnishings. The hour was late—well past midnight—and she had dismissed her ladies hours ago. Her mind still raced with the day's council deliberations, the endless parade of financial reports, diplomatic documents, and administrative minutiae that now consumed her life.
She was about to snuff out the final candle when she felt it—a subtle change in the air pressure, a whisper of electricity that raised the fine hairs on her arms. Before she could turn around, strong hands slid around her waist from behind, and she felt the warm press of a body against her back.
"I've missed you, Elizabeth," Bobby whispered against her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
She hadn't heard a door open. No footsteps had crossed her chamber floor. One moment she had been alone, and the next, he stood behind her—a phenomenon that no longer surprised her. She had long since accepted that Robert—Bobby—Kestrel operated beyond natural laws.
"Your withdrawal from the council was unexpected," she said, leaning back against him, her body betraying her composure even as she maintained a semblance of royal dignity in her words. "It caused considerable consternation among the members."
His hands moved methodically up her sides, tracing the outline of her formal gown. "My presence is unnecessary when they have you," he murmured, fingers finding the laces that held her bodice in place. "And Jane. And Mary, when she chooses to attend rather than focusing solely on religious matters."
Elizabeth felt the first lace loosen, then another, Bobby's deft fingers working with practiced precision.
"The three Tudor women, governing England together." He chuckled softly. "History would never have believed it possible."
"I miss this," she whispered, her voice different now—softer, less controlled. It had been weeks since he'd visited her chamber. Weeks lost to exhaustion, to the endless demands of a council member's duties.
"As do I," he agreed, his lips finding the sensitive spot below her ear. The gown loosened further, and she felt his hands slip beneath the heavy outer fabric, seeking the thin shift beneath. "You're learning valuable lessons in administration—experience few monarchs possess before taking the throne."
Elizabeth closed her eyes, allowing herself to forget, for these precious moments, that she was a princess—the carefully controlled Tudor heiress who had survived countless threats through relentless vigilance and perfect composure. With Bobby, she could simply be Elizabeth, a woman of eighteen years with normal hungers and desires.
"I never imagined the administration of a nation would require such endless tedium," she admitted as her heavy outer gown fell away entirely, leaving her in her shift and stays. "So many petitions, so many disputes requiring arbitration. The weight of it seems endless."
"And yet you excel," he observed, his hands working at the laces of her stays now. "You were born for this, Elizabeth Tudor. Born to rule."
His fingertips brushed against the bare skin of her back as the stays loosened, and she shivered involuntarily. Her fear of being touched by men—the lingering trauma of Thomas Seymour's unwelcome attentions during her adolescence—remained a persistent shadow. But Bobby was not like other men. His touch brought comfort rather than anxiety, pleasure rather than dread.
When the final garment fell away, leaving her naked in the candlelight, she didn't feel the customary urge to cover herself. Instead, she leaned back against him, the fine fabric of his doublet rough against her bare skin.
"Turn around," he whispered, and she complied, facing him now, her eyes meeting his without shame despite her nudity.
Bobby studied her with undisguised appreciation, his gaze moving slowly from her face down to her small, firm breasts, the gentle curve of her hips, the triangle of dark copper hair between her thighs.
"Quite magnificent," he murmured. "A queen in more than just title."
He kissed her then, deeply and thoroughly, and she pressed against him, the contrast between her nakedness and his fully clothed state creating a delicious tension. His hands—those remarkable hands that had wielded impossible powers before her eyes—traced patterns across her skin that left her trembling.
"Lie back on the bed," he instructed gently, and Elizabeth complied, positioning herself against the fine linen sheets. Bobby remained standing, watching her with intense focus that made her pulse quicken.
"Spread your legs for me," he continued, his voice low and commanding.
Despite her inexperience—she remained technically a virgin, a necessity for her future as queen—Elizabeth knew what pleasure Bobby could provide without compromising her maidenhead. She parted her thighs, exposing herself fully to his gaze.
"Beautiful," he whispered, kneeling before the bed. "Your royal cunt is the most perfect I've seen across a thousand years."
The crude language should have shocked her—should have offended her royal dignity—but instead, it sent a jolt of arousal through her core. Bobby's deliberate vulgarity, so contrary to the careful deference with which everyone else addressed her, created a liberating contrast to her daily existence.
He leaned forward, his breath warm against her inner thighs, and Elizabeth felt herself tense slightly in anticipation. "Relax," he murmured, his hands gently caressing her legs. "Let yourself feel everything."
When his mouth finally touched her center, Elizabeth gasped, her back arching involuntarily. Bobby's tongue moved with deliberate precision, tracing circles around the sensitive bud at her core without directly touching it, building tension with each passing moment.
"Fuck," she whispered, the profanity foreign and thrilling on her royal tongue. "Please, Bobby..."
He responded by increasing the pressure slightly, his tongue now flicking directly across her clit in measured strokes that made her grip the sheets with white-knuckled intensity. The sensation built rapidly, pleasure spiraling upward with each expertly placed lick.
Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress a moan, conscious even in her arousal that walls in royal palaces had ears. Bobby seemed to sense her restraint, because he looked up briefly, his eyes meeting hers.
"Let me hear you," he urged. "No one will hear, I promise."
Something in his tone—perhaps the certainty with which he made this impossible guarantee—convinced her to release her inhibitions. When his mouth returned to her cunt, Elizabeth allowed herself a deep, throaty moan that would have scandalized the entire court had they heard their princess in such a state.
Bobby continued his relentless attention, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on her most sensitive points. Just as she neared the edge of climax, he slid a single finger inside her, careful to avoid the barrier of her maidenhead, curving upward to stroke a spot that sent electric shocks of pleasure through her entire body.
"Oh God," she gasped, her hips rising to meet his mouth. "Bobby, I'm going to—"
The orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, obliterating thought and transforming her body into pure sensation. Her thighs clamped instinctively around his head, her hands fisting in the sheets as wave after wave of pleasure radiated outward from her core. Bobby continued his attentions through her climax, gradually reducing pressure as the spasms subsided, prolonging her pleasure with remarkable skill.
When the final tremors had passed, Elizabeth lay boneless against the sheets, her chest heaving with exertion, her skin flushed and damp with perspiration. Bobby rose from his knees and sat beside her on the bed, his expression one of genuine satisfaction at her pleasure.
"That was..." she began, struggling to find appropriate words.
"Magnificent," he supplied, gently brushing a strand of copper hair from her forehead. "You're extraordinarily responsive, Elizabeth. A quality that will serve you well when you eventually take a consort."
The practical reminder of her future—a future that must include marriage for dynastic purposes—broke through the warm haze of satisfaction. Elizabeth propped herself up on her elbows, studying Bobby's face in the candlelight.
"When will you be leaving?" Elizabeth asked, her voice steady now despite her recent abandon.
Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Soon. I'll return to Whitehaven after a couple more days of finalizing the arrangements here."
Elizabeth shook her head. "That's not what I meant." She sat up fully now, pulling the sheet to cover herself partly out of ingrained modesty. "I had another dream last night. About being Queen."
His expression changed subtly—a flicker of understanding. "And?"
"It was..." She hesitated. "Disappointing. A certain someone was no longer in it."
Bobby nodded slowly. "I see." He rose from the bed, moving to the window where he stood silhouetted against the moonlight. "The quantum temporal displacement energy has reached a critical threshold. My departure from this timeline has become a certainty rather than a probability."
Elizabeth pulled her knees to her chest, suddenly feeling vulnerable in her nakedness. "You knew this would happen."
"Yes." His voice was matter-of-fact. "I've known since the moment I appeared in that abandoned church and found thirteen men about to violate and murder a Tudor princess."
"And yet you intervened," Elizabeth observed. "Knowing it would accelerate your... displacement."
Bobby turned to face her, his expression unreadable in the dim light before a gentleness flashed. "You called, and I answered."
Elizabeth couldn't help but feel her heart thumping at the simple response. She called for him then, and he answered—sealing both of their fates at that abandoned church. Then, her only goal had been survival, followed swiftly by the crown. Now...
"How much time do we have?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Bobby moved back to the bed, sitting beside her. "I'll witness your coronation," he said carefully. "That much I can say for certain."
"Mary's health is excellent," Elizabeth replied, tilting her head. "She could reign for decades. Not just the five year in my dream."
Something flickered across Bobby's face—a shadow of knowledge he chose not to share. "Nature takes its course, Elizabeth. Just as it did with Edward. It is God's will."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed at Bobby's careful phrasing. She had grown skilled at detecting the gaps in his statements—the truths he omitted rather than the lies he rarely told outright.
"Mary appears in excellent health for a woman of thirty-six," Elizabeth observed, studying his face for reaction. "The physicians say she could live for another twenty years or more."
A shadow passed across Bobby's features—a momentary flicker of knowledge held back. "The human body is fragile," he said quietly. "And those who bear the weight of a crown often find it accelerates their decline in ways difficult to predict."
Elizabeth sat up straighter, the sheet falling to her waist. "You know something about Mary's health."
Bobby's gaze remained steady. "The war against Northumberland demanded extraordinary exertion from your sister. Physical, emotional, mental. Such stresses exact their toll on mortal flesh."
"Cancer," Elizabeth whispered, the strange word hanging heavy between them. "In one of my dreams... visions, Mary died of a growth in her stomach..."
Bobby's fingers traced abstract patterns on the sheet. "The timeline adapts to circumstances. Events compress or expand based on countless variables."
Elizabeth considered the implications. Mary would die sooner than history intended—another casualty of Northumberland's ambition. "You could save her, couldn't you? With your... abilities."
"I could," Bobby admitted. "But should I?"
Elizabeth studied him in the flickering candlelight. "Why did you save me, that day in the church? When Northumberland's men had me at their mercy?"
Bobby's eyes met hers. He said simply: "You called for me."
"And if you hadn't come? If you hadn't heard my call?"
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind rattling the window's diamond-shaped panes. Finally, Bobby spoke.
"You would have died that day, Elizabeth. After considerable suffering at their hands."
The words landed with grim finality, confirming what she had suspected but never voiced aloud. Without Bobby's intervention, she would have been violated and murdered by Northumberland's men, her body disposed of and her death blamed on illness or accident. Her apparent fate in this reality. Jane would still ascended and have remained on the throne, a puppet dancing to Northumberland's pull, while Mary would have been branded traitor to England and executed once her rebellion failed without Bobby's strategic support.
"This timeline differs substantially from the one that was," Bobby continued, recalling his own timeline, so many timelines ago. "The moment I froze those thirteen men in their tracks, I felt it—a massive spike of quantum temporal entanglement energy surging through my system. By acting on impulse or maybe, perhaps something more, I had irreversibly altered your destiny."
"And yet you did it anyway," Elizabeth murmured. Her heart beating.
"I did." His voice softened. "And I would again, knowing the consequences. The timeline I've altered suits me better than the one I abandoned."
Elizabeth found herself reaching for him, her royal composure forgotten as her hand slid across the rich fabric of his doublet. "You've given me so much," she whispered, her fingers finding the ties of his garment. "Pleasure. Protection. A future. Yet I've given nothing in return."
Bobby caught her hand gently. "Your survival is rewarding enough."
Elizabeth shook her head, copper hair spilling across her bare shoulders. "That's not true, and we both know it." Her fingers continued working at the ties of his doublet with unexpected dexterity. "You've brought me to completion time and again, yet never sought your own pleasure."
"Elizabeth—" Bobby began, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.
"I cannot overcome my nature enough to give you my maidenhead," Elizabeth admitted, her voice steady despite the vulnerability of her naked state. "That must remain intact for the sake of England's future queen. But there are other ways I might please you."
Bobby's expression shifted, a mixture of desire and something like tenderness crossing his features. "You owe me nothing."
"This isn't about debt," Elizabeth replied, successfully loosening the final tie of his doublet. She pushed the garment from his shoulders, revealing the fine linen shirt beneath. "This is about choice. My choice."
She continued undressing him methodically—the shirt following his doublet to the floor, revealing a torso sculpted with impossible perfection. No scars, no blemishes marred his skin's smooth surface. Elizabeth ran her hands across his chest, marveling at the contrast between her pale fingers and his lightly tanned skin.
When she reached for the fastenings of his breeches, Bobby captured her wrist. "Elizabeth"
Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. "I am a Tudor," she said simply. "We take what we want when we can."
Bobby released her wrist, allowing her to continue. The breeches opened beneath her fingers, and Elizabeth slipped her hand inside, gasping softly when her fingers encountered his cock—already hard, and considerably larger than she had anticipated.
"Sweet Jesu...," she whispered, wrapping her fingers around his length as best she could. Her hand couldn't quite close around his girth. "No wonder the ladies at court whisper behind their fans when you pass."
Bobby's lips quirked in amusement. "Size matters less than skill, Princess."
"So I've heard," Elizabeth replied, pushing the breeches down his legs to reveal his cock in its entirety. "Though I imagine both together prove quite effective."
She stroked him experimentally, watching his expression for guidance. Her inexperience was evident in her hesitant movements, but her natural intelligence and observation skills allowed her to quickly adapt to his responses.
"Like this?" Elizabeth asked, adjusting her grip to match the subtle tightening of muscles in his jaw.
"Firmer," Bobby guided, his voice deepening. "Men require more... substantial pressure than women might imagine."
Elizabeth tightened her grip, feeling the heat and hardness beneath the silken skin. His size both intimidated and intrigued her—significantly longer than her hand and thick enough that her fingers couldn't fully encircle him.
"I've heard whispers," she murmured, establishing a slow rhythm with her strokes. "Ladies of the court speak of you in hushed tones. Now I understand why Lady Bedford walked with such difficulty the morning after your private consultation."
Bobby's lips quirked in amusement. "Court gossip provides poor education. Allow me to demonstrate the proper technique."
He covered her hand with his own, guiding her movements—showing her how to twist slightly at the top, how to vary pressure, how to use her thumb to brush across the sensitive head. Elizabeth proved an apt pupil, quickly adapting to his wordless instructions.
"Your intelligence extends beyond statecraft," Bobby observed as she mastered the basic rhythm.
Pride flickered across Elizabeth's features. The Tudor need for excellence extended to all endeavors, even those conducted in shadowed bedchambers far from the public eye.
"I wish to try something more," she said suddenly, her copper hair falling forward as she leaned closer to examine his cock with scholarly curiosity. "I've overheard Frances Howard describing a particular act to the Countess of Bedford. Something involving one's mouth."
Bobby's eyes darkened. "Are you certain? The act you're contemplating isn't typically expected of royal princesses."
Elizabeth met his gaze with characteristic Tudor defiance. "I am many things before I am royal, Bobby Kestrel. Woman. Scholar. Survivor." She lowered her head, her breath warm against his skin. "And I am, above all, curious."
Her first experimental lick along his shaft drew a sharp intake of breath from Bobby. Encouraged by this response, Elizabeth continued her exploration, tracing the prominent vein along the underside before circling the head with her tongue.
"Christ," Bobby muttered, his composure slipping momentarily.
"Blasphemy, Lord Kestrel?" Elizabeth teased, pulling back briefly. "How very improper."
"Says the princess with a cock in her hand," he countered, threading his fingers through her copper hair.
Elizabeth laughed—a genuine sound rarely heard in court circles where her every utterance was calculated for political effect. Then, with newfound boldness, she took him into her mouth.
The sensation of fullness was immediate and overwhelming. She had barely managed to encompass the head before reaching the limits of her comfort. She pulled back slightly, adjusting to the unfamiliar intrusion.
"Slowly," Bobby advised, his fingers gentle against her scalp. "Use your hand for what your mouth cannot accommodate. No one expects mastery on first attempt."
Elizabeth followed his guidance, establishing a rhythm between hand and mouth that allowed her to pleasure him without discomfort. She found herself strangely empowered by the act—she, Elizabeth Tudor, royal princess and future Queen of England, reducing this extraordinary man to wordless appreciation through such an intimate act.
"That's it," Bobby encouraged as she found her rhythm. "Perfect."
Pride swelled within her chest at his approval. Elizabeth redoubled her efforts, attempting to take him deeper despite his considerable size. The head of his cock brushed against the back of her throat, triggering an unexpected gag reflex that forced her to withdraw abruptly.
"Forgive me," Elizabeth gasped, embarrassment flooding her cheeks with color.
Bobby shook his head, his fingers brushing her cheek with tenderness that contrasted sharply with the explicit nature of their activities. "You attempt too much too quickly," he said. "Your enthusiasm exceeds your experience."
"A common Tudor failing," Elizabeth admitted wryly, recovering her composure with remarkable speed. "Always reaching beyond prudent limits."
"A trait that will serve England well," Bobby replied, "though perhaps moderation benefits this particular endeavor."
Elizabeth cleared her throat, settling more comfortably between his legs. "Instruct me," she said, her voice carrying the same authority she used in council chambers when demanding clarity from ambassadors. "I would learn properly."
Bobby suppressed a smile at her characteristic determination. "Use your tongue more deliberately," he suggested. "Focus on the head where sensation concentrates most intensely."
Elizabeth applied herself to this guidance with scholarly dedication, swirling her tongue around the sensitive glans while her hand maintained steady pressure along his shaft. She noted each subtle reaction—the tightening of his abdomen when she licked a particular spot, the sharp intake of breath when she applied suction in just the right way.
"Look at me," Bobby commanded softly.
Elizabeth raised her gaze without interrupting her ministrations—copper hair disheveled, eyes bright with determination, lips stretched around his considerable girth. The visual contrast between her royal bearing and current activity created an erotic tableau that intensified Bobby's arousal considerably.
"Elizabeth Tudor," he murmured, brushing hair away from her face. "You never cease to amaze me."
She hummed in appreciation of the compliment, inadvertently sending vibrations through his cock that drew a low groan from his throat. Recognizing the effect, she deliberately repeated the action, pleased with this discovery of another technique to enhance his pleasure.
Despite her inexperience, Elizabeth's natural intelligence and determination allowed her to adapt quickly to the task. She established a rhythm that balanced depth, suction, and the use of her hand to compensate for what her mouth couldn't encompass.
Bobby's breathing grew more ragged as she continued, his fingers tightening slightly in her hair. "Elizabeth," he warned, his voice strained. "I'm close."
She understood his meaning but made no move to withdraw. Instead, she intensified her efforts, determined to experience the act in its entirety.
"Elizabeth," Bobby repeated more urgently. "Unless you intend to—"
She silenced his warning by taking him deeper, her eyes fixed on his in clear communication of her intentions. Bobby's control finally shattered at this deliberate provocation.
"Fuck," he growled, his hips jerking slightly as his release began.
The first pulse caught Elizabeth by surprise despite the warning. The hot, thick fluid filled her mouth more rapidly than anticipated, overwhelming her limited experience. She pulled back instinctively, causing the second and third pulses to land across her face—streaking her cheek and lips with pearlescent white.
The sheer quantity exceeded anything Elizabeth had imagined from court gossip. She had heard giggling accounts of "Lord Kestrel's remarkable endowments" but had assumed such tales represented typical feminine exaggeration. Now, wiping a streak of his seed from her cheek, she recognized those whispers had been, if anything, understated.
"Sweet Jesu..." she murmured, staring at the viscous fluid coating her fingers. "The Countess of Bedford wasn't exaggerating after all."
Bobby reached for a cloth beside the bed, gently wiping her face clean. "Are you quite alright?" he asked, his tone carrying genuine concern.
Elizabeth nodded, still processing the experience. "It was... more substantial than anticipated," she admitted, a hint of humor surfacing through her momentary shock. "Both in quantity and... intensity."
"A thousand pardons," Bobby said, though his expression held more masculine pride than genuine contrition.
"None required," Elizabeth replied, her royal composure returning with remarkable speed. She glanced down, her eyes widening slightly. "You remain... affected."
Bobby's cock showed little sign of diminishment despite his recent release. "Another aspect of my nature," he explained obliquely.
Elizabeth reached out tentatively, confirming its continued hardness with experimental touch. "Fascinating," she murmured with scholarly interest. "Most educational."
Her fingers traced his length, now slick with remnants of his seed. The cock pulsed beneath her touch, seemingly eager for further attention despite recent satisfaction. Elizabeth found herself wondering how such an impressive organ would feel inside her—stretching her, filling her completely.
"I cannot help but wonder," Elizabeth said softly, her eyes fixed on his still-rigid member, "how it might feel were circumstances different." Her fingers continued their idle exploration. "Were I not bound by the requirements of royal virginity."
Bobby watched her carefully. "The thought has crossed my mind as well."
Elizabeth's gaze lifted to meet his. "I find myself frustrated by my own nature," she confessed. "The need to maintain this physical barrier when every other aspect of my being wishes nothing more than to experience you fully."
She rose to her knees, still gloriously naked, and brought her face close to his. "That night in the church," she whispered, "I promised you anything within my power if you saved me."
"And I required nothing in return," Bobby reminded her.
"Yet I find myself wishing you had," Elizabeth replied, surprising herself with her candor. "That you had claimed me then, taken what was offered without concern for future consequences."
Bobby's expression shifted subtly. "You wish I had forced the issue? Taken your virginity regardless of its implications for your future?"
"Yes," Elizabeth admitted, the word barely audible. "Sometimes I imagine you appearing in my chamber not as gentle savior but as conqueror, taking what royal duty forces me to withhold." Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at this confession. "It's unnatural, I know. Abhorrent even."
"Not at all," Bobby assured her, his hands cradling her face. "The mind creates fantasies specifically to explore possibilities physically unattainable. That's their purpose—safe exploration of forbidden territory."
Elizabeth's expression revealed both relief at his understanding and lingering shame at her admission. "You must think me terribly deviant."
Bobby chuckled, the sound warming her despite her embarrassment. "Elizabeth, if you could comprehend the thoughts that pass through most human minds, you'd find yours refreshingly straightforward." His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip. "There's nothing unnatural about desiring a way to experience pleasure without the burden of responsibility."
His gaze held hers with sudden intensity. "Would you like to play that game, Elizabeth? To pretend, for tonight, that I've come to take what I want regardless of your royal status or future needs?"
Elizabeth's breath caught at his direct question. "I... yes," she whispered, her voice scarcely audible even in the silence of her chamber. "But my virginity—"
"Would remain intact," Bobby assured her. "There are ways to simulate the experience while preserving what must be preserved."
Elizabeth nodded, uncertain but trusting. "How would we begin?"
Bobby's expression shifted suddenly—hardening from tenderness to something more predatory. "Turn around," he commanded, his voice entirely different now—lower, more threatening. "Hands behind your back."
The abrupt change startled Elizabeth, triggering an instinctive response of fear mingled with surprising arousal. She hesitated momentarily before complying, turning to present her back to him.
"I said hands behind your back," Bobby repeated more forcefully when she failed to complete the instruction. "Or have Tudor princesses forgotten how to follow simple commands?"
Elizabeth placed her hands behind her as instructed, her heart pounding against her ribs. This was just play, she reminded herself, yet her body responded as though to genuine threat—adrenaline sharpening her senses, quickening her breath.
Bobby grasped her wrists in one large hand, holding them firmly at the small of her back. His other hand traveled up her spine to tangle in her copper hair, pulling just firmly enough to arch her neck backward.
"Do you know how many men would kill to have the virgin princess at their mercy?" he whispered against her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "To bend the mighty Tudor daughter to their will?"
Elizabeth trembled, uncertain whether from fear or excitement. "Please," she whispered, though she wasn't entirely certain what she was asking for.
"Please what?" Bobby demanded, tightening his grip on her hair slightly. "Please stop? Please continue? Be specific, Princess. Even captives must communicate clearly."
"Please don't hurt me," Elizabeth managed, slipping deeper into the role despite her conscious knowledge that Bobby would never truly harm her.
"Hurt you? No." His free hand traveled around her body to cup one small breast, his thumb brushing roughly across the nipple. "Pain isn't my objective, Princess Elizabeth. Submission is."
The harsh words contrasted with the gentleness of his actual touch, creating a dissonance that heightened Elizabeth's arousal rather than triggering genuine fear. She understood the game now—the illusion of force while maintaining absolute safety.
"Kneel on the bed," Bobby ordered, releasing her wrists but maintaining his grip on her hair. "Chest down, ass up. Now."
Elizabeth complied, positioning herself as commanded—face pressed against the fine linen sheets, hips elevated, feeling extraordinarily vulnerable with her most intimate parts exposed to his view.
Bobby maintained his dominant persona, his hand delivering a sharp smack across her buttock that startled a gasp from Elizabeth's throat. "Such a pretty royal cunt," he observed crudely, his fingers tracing the damp folds between her thighs. "Already wet. Does being commanded excite the future Queen of England?"
Elizabeth buried her face in the sheets, mortified by both the vulgar language and the accuracy of his assessment. Her body had indeed responded to his domination with unmistakable arousal.
"Answer me," Bobby demanded, delivering another light smack to her opposite cheek.
"Yes," Elizabeth admitted, her voice muffled by the bedding.
"Yes, what?" Bobby prompted, his fingers continuing their exploration of her intimate flesh.
"Yes, it... excites me," Elizabeth clarified, forcing the words past her pride.
"Good girl," Bobby praised, his tone softening momentarily before returning to the harsher character he'd adopted. "Now, Princess, we face a dilemma. I want to fuck you—to claim what no man has touched before. Yet doing so would damage your value to England."
His fingers slid through her folds, gathering moisture before moving higher, circling the tight rosebud of her anus. "Fortunately, there are alternatives."
Elizabeth tensed immediately at the unfamiliar touch. "That's not... people can't... it's unnatural," she protested, genuine alarm replacing the playacted fear.
Bobby immediately paused, his dominant persona falling away. "We stop the moment you truly wish it," he reminded her gently. "But if you're willing to continue, I promise to make it pleasurable."
Elizabeth hesitated, torn between natural revulsion at the concept and her trust in Bobby's experience. "I've never even considered such a thing," she admitted.
"Most haven't," Bobby acknowledged. "Yet many discover unexpected pleasure there when approached properly." His fingers resumed their gentle circles. "Shall we continue our game, or would you prefer something more conventional?"
Elizabeth considered for a moment before nodding slightly. "Continue," she whispered. "But slowly."
Bobby's dominant persona returned seamlessly. "The princess has no choice in the matter," he stated firmly, though his actual touch remained gentle despite the harsh words. "Her royal body serves my pleasure tonight."
He reached for a small vial on the bedside table—one that Elizabeth hadn't noticed him produce. Uncorking it one-handed, he drizzled fragrant oil across his fingers before returning them to her tight entrance.
The oil warmed almost immediately upon contact with her skin, creating a pleasant tingling sensation as Bobby worked it around the puckered opening.
"Relax," he instructed, his tone softening slightly despite remaining in character. "Resistance makes this more difficult."
Elizabeth did her best to comply, focusing on relaxing the muscles that had instinctively clenched against the unfamiliar intrusion. Bobby worked with surprising patience, massaging the tight ring of muscle with careful circular motions, gradually increasing pressure without actual penetration.
"That's it," he encouraged as he felt the initial tension begin to ease. "Good girl."
The praise, though part of their game, sent an unexpected surge of warmth through Elizabeth's chest. Her breathing steadied as she focused on the novel sensations, finding them less unpleasant than anticipated as her body adjusted to his careful ministrations.
Gradually, Bobby increased pressure until the tip of his finger slipped just past the tight ring of muscle. Elizabeth gasped at the intrusion—a brief flash of discomfort quickly followed by a strange fullness that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
"Breathe," Bobby reminded her, holding his finger perfectly still to allow her adaptation.
Elizabeth drew a shaky breath, concentrating on relaxing around the unfamiliar intrusion. The slight burning sensation gradually subsided as her body accommodated his finger.
"Good," Bobby murmured, beginning to move his finger in tiny, gentle motions. "You're doing wonderfully."
The initial discomfort transformed gradually into a peculiar pleasure as Bobby worked his finger deeper with methodical patience. By the time he began introducing a second oiled digit, Elizabeth found herself pushing back slightly against his hand, her body seeking more of the strange new sensation.
"Eager princess," Bobby observed, maintaining his dominant tone despite the extreme care with which he prepared her. "So desperate for cock you'll take it any way you can get it."
The crude words, though part of their game, sent a jolt of arousal through Elizabeth's core. She pressed her face harder against the sheets, mortified by her body's eager response to both his actions and his words.
Bobby worked with meticulous thoroughness, gradually stretching her with two fingers, then three, each new intrusion preceded by additional oil and patient preparation. Despite the explicit nature of the act, there was something almost reverent in his careful attention to her comfort.
"Please," Elizabeth whispered after what seemed an eternity of preparation, her inhibitions dissolving under the combined effects of arousal and Bobby's skilled touch. "I'm ready."
"Are you?" Bobby questioned, scissoring his fingers gently inside her. "Ready for my cock in your tight royal ass? Ready to be fucked in ways no future queen should experience?"
"Yes," Elizabeth hissed, beyond embarrassment now. "Please."
Bobby withdrew his fingers, leaving her feeling strangely empty. She heard him applying more oil, presumably to his cock, before feeling the blunt head pressing against her prepared entrance.
"This will hurt," he warned, temporarily breaking character to ensure her understanding. "But the pain passes quickly if you remain relaxed. Trust me."
Elizabeth nodded her understanding, bracing herself for the intrusion. Despite their careful preparation, Bobby's considerable size presented a far greater challenge than his fingers had.
The initial pressure was intense—a burning stretch that drew a sharp gasp from Elizabeth's throat as the head of his cock breached the tight ring of muscle. Bobby paused immediately, allowing her time to adjust to the significant intrusion.
"Breathe through it," he instructed, his hand stroking soothingly along her spine. "The discomfort fades quickly."
Elizabeth forced herself to breathe deeply, consciously relaxing muscles that had instinctively clenched against the invasion. Gradually, as Bobby had promised, the sharp pain subsided into a more manageable fullness.
"Good," Bobby murmured when he felt her tension ease. "Very good."
He advanced slowly, introducing his length by careful increments, pausing whenever he felt resistance to allow her adjustment. The process required extraordinary restraint, particularly given the exquisite tight heat enveloping him inch by inch.
"So tight," he groaned, maintaining his dominant character despite the genuine pleasure evident in his voice. "Such a perfect royal ass."
Elizabeth whimpered softly as he continued his careful advance. The sensation was overwhelming—painful yet pleasurable, forbidden yet thrilling. Each inch stretched her impossibly further, creating an intense fullness unlike anything she had previously experienced.
"Too much," she gasped when he had managed perhaps half his considerable length. "I can't—"
Bobby immediately stilled his progress. "We've reached your limit," he acknowledged, making no attempt to advance further. "This is enough."
Even with just half his length inside her, Elizabeth felt impossibly full, stretched beyond what she had believed her body could accommodate. The initial sharp pain had indeed faded as promised, replaced by a complex sensation that balanced discomfort with unexpected pleasure.
"Move," she whispered after several moments of adjustment. "Slowly."
Bobby complied, withdrawing slightly before pressing forward again, establishing a gentle rhythm that carefully respected her demonstrated limits. Each stroke sent conflicting signals through Elizabeth's nervous system—strange pressure, lingering discomfort, but also flashes of unexpected pleasure that intensified as her body adjusted to the unfamiliar intrusion.
"Touch yourself," Bobby instructed, his voice rough with restrained desire. "Show me how the future Queen pleasures herself while taking cock in her ass."
The vulgarity of his command should have offended Elizabeth's royal sensibilities, yet in the heated context of their encounter, it served only to intensify her arousal. She shifted her weight to one arm, allowing her other hand to snake beneath her body to find the sensitive bud at her center.
The combination of sensations—Bobby's cock stretching her from behind while her own fingers circled her clit—created an unexpected synergy that rapidly built toward climax. Each careful thrust seemed to intensify the sensitivity of her more conventional pleasure centers.
"That's it," Bobby encouraged, gauging her increasing acceptance in the way her body began to meet his careful thrusts. "Take what you need."
Elizabeth abandoned herself to the dual stimulation, her fingers working rapidly against her clit as Bobby maintained his measured pace behind her. The initial strangeness of the act receded, replaced by a building pressure that promised extraordinary release.
"I'm close," she gasped, propriety forgotten in the face of impending climax. "God help me, I'm close."
Bobby adjusted his angle slightly, finding a position that allowed slightly deeper penetration without exceeding her demonstrated tolerance. "Come for me, Elizabeth," he commanded, his royal title deliberately omitted despite their role-play. "Come with my cock in your ass like the wanton beneath the crown."
The crude instruction, combined with the novel physical sensations, pushed Elizabeth over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her with unexpected intensity, drawing a muffled scream that she barely managed to stifle against the bedding. Her inner muscles clenched rhythmically, tightening further around Bobby's invading length in waves that prolonged and intensified her pleasure.
Bobby maintained perfect control despite her body's convulsive tightening around him, continuing his measured strokes to extend her climax without seeking his own completion. Only when her spasms subsided did he gradually increase his pace, his hands gripping her hips firmly as he approached his own release.
"Where?" he managed to ask, his control clearly fraying despite his effort to maintain it.
"Inside," Elizabeth gasped without hesitation, still trembling from her own powerful climax. "I want to feel it."
Bobby's rhythm faltered at her explicit permission. With a low groan, he pressed forward—still carefully avoiding exceeding her demonstrated limits—and found his release deep within her. Elizabeth gasped at the novel sensation of hot pulses filling her most intimate passage, marking her internally in ways that preserved her technical virtue while satisfying some primal need for completion.
They remained joined for several moments afterward, both catching their breath in the aftermath of unexpected intensity. Finally, Bobby withdrew with careful attention to her comfort, eliciting a small gasp from Elizabeth as her body adjusted to his absence.
"Are you well?" he asked, concern evident in his tone as he reached for a cloth to clean them both.
Elizabeth turned carefully onto her side, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar soreness. "Remarkably so," she admitted, studying his face with renewed curiosity. "Though I expect sitting through tomorrow's council meeting will prove interesting."
Bobby's lips quirked in amusement as he gently cleaned away the evidence of their activities. "The discomfort passes quickly," he assured her. "By tomorrow evening, you'll feel no lasting effects."
Elizabeth observed him with thoughtful eyes as he completed his ministrations. "You've done that before," she observed. "Many times, I imagine."
"Experience has its advantages," Bobby acknowledged without directly confirming her assessment.
"With other women from court?" Elizabeth pressed, her complexity reasserting itself now that physical satisfaction had been achieved. "Lady Howard? The Countess of Bedford, perhaps?"
Bobby considered his response carefully. "Would a detailed accounting of previous partners serve any purpose beyond provoking unnecessary jealousy?"
Elizabeth's lips thinned momentarily before she sighed in acknowledgment. "None whatsoever," she admitted. "Though the Tudor temperament rarely concerns itself with rational purpose when emotions are involved."
Bobby set aside the cloth, stretching out beside her on the bed. "If it provides any comfort, your particular... constellation of qualities remains unique in my experience."
"A diplomatic answer worthy of Cecil himself," Elizabeth observed dryly.
"Yet entirely truthful," Bobby countered, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip with casual intimacy. "Your combination of intelligence, courage, ambition, vulnerability, and sheer determination distinguishes you from anyone I've encountered."
Elizabeth studied his face, searching for signs of flattery or manipulation. Finding none, she allowed herself to settle more comfortably against him, her head finding a natural place against his shoulder.
"When will you tell me who you really are? What you really are?" she asked softly. "These abilities you possess—appearing in rooms without doors opening, knowing things no one could possibly know, healing injuries that should have been fatal."
Bobby traced his finger along her collarbone, deliberately diverting her attention from questions he had no intention of answering. "You have me at a disadvantage, Princess. I'm naked in your bed, and you're interrogating me like a Spanish inquisitor."
"You always deflect," Elizabeth noted, catching his wrist. "Each time I approach anything resembling the truth of your existence, you create a clever diversion."
"Perhaps the truth would disappoint you," Bobby suggested, rolling onto his back. "Or terrify you beyond reason."
"Try me," Elizabeth challenged, propping herself on one elbow to stare down at him. "I've faced Northumberland's assassins, political exile, and the constant threat of execution since childhood. What could possibly remain that would break my composure?"
Bobby reached up, tucking a strand of copper hair behind her ear. "Some mysteries serve us better remaining unsolved, Elizabeth. Focus on what matters—you will have your crown, as promised."
Elizabeth sighed, momentarily defeated. Her strategic mind recognized when further pressing would yield nothing. "Will you stay tonight?" she asked instead, her voice softening in a rare display of vulnerability.
"I always do," Bobby replied, stroking her bare shoulder. "Though I'll be gone before your ladies arrive in the morning."
"You always say that too," Elizabeth observed, settling against his chest. "Yet each time I ask as though the answer might change."
Bobby's lips quirked in amusement. "Perhaps you seek reassurance rather than information. Understandable, given your childhood."
Elizabeth traced abstract patterns across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. "Will I see you again after you depart for Whitehaven?"
"Of course," Bobby answered, his fingers combing gently through her copper hair. "Distance presents no obstacle to me, as you've likely noticed. Perhaps next time you might even take all of me."
Elizabeth's cheeks flushed at his explicit suggestion, despite their recent activities. "Perhaps I will," she murmured against his skin. "Perhaps next time, I'll offer everything that I am."
Bobby continued stroking her hair without responding, feeling her gradually relax against him. Today's council session had taxed her considerably—financial disputes between wool merchants had required her complete attention for six exhausting hours.
"Thank you," Bobby said quietly as her breathing deepened toward sleep.
"For what?" she mumbled drowsily.
"For calling out to me that day in the abandoned church," he replied. "Had you not, I might have missed experiencing this particular timeline entirely."
Elizabeth made an unintelligible sound before surrendering completely to sleep, her body warm against his side. Bobby closed his eyes, allowing himself to enter a state of meditative rest. Unlike humans, he required no actual sleep—his nanite-infused physiology had long since transcended such biological necessities—but he found comfort in the ritual, particularly with Elizabeth's warmth against him.
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Morning sunlight streamed through the diamond-paned windows, casting intricate patterns across Elizabeth's bed. She opened her eyes slowly, momentarily disoriented as fragments of dreams mingled with memories of the previous night.
"Bobby?" she whispered, reaching across the empty sheets beside her.
No answer came. As he'd promised, he had departed before her ladies could arrive with the morning's first light. Elizabeth sat up carefully, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar soreness between her buttocks—physical confirmation that the previous night's activities had been no dream.
Her gaze fell upon the bedside table where the small vial of oil still remained—a tangible artifact of Bobby's impossible abilities. He produced such items seemingly from thin air, one of the countless inexplicable aspects of his existence that he refused to explain.
Elizabeth reached for her bedsheet, wrapping it around herself as she moved gingerly toward her washing basin. Walking proved a novel experience, the tender ache with each step a persistent reminder of how thoroughly Bobby had claimed her, preserving her maidenhead while still marking her as his in ways that left no visible evidence.
"He said the discomfort would fade by evening," she murmured to herself, testing different postures to minimize the sensation. The council meeting this morning would require her to sit for hours—a prospect that now carried unexpected complexity.
A memory surfaced of Lady Howard and the Countess of Bedford standing rather than sitting during an afternoon reception following one of Bobby's visits to their chambers. At the time, Elizabeth had thought nothing of it. Now, understanding dawned with vivid clarity.
"Sweet Jesu..." she whispered, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks. "I've joined their ranks after all."
The thought brought an unexpected mixture of emotions—embarrassment, certainly, but also a peculiar pride. She had experienced what those court ladies had experienced, surrendered to the same pleasures, welcomed the same man into her most intimate places. There was something almost democratizing in the realization—that royalty and nobility alike could be reduced to the same trembling, gasping creatures beneath Bobby Kestrel's touch.
A knock at her chamber door interrupted her reflections. "Your Highness?" came Agnes's voice. "It's past seven bells. The council assembles in an hour."
"Enter," Elizabeth called, quickly composing her features into royal dignity despite her state of undress. Whatever traces of the wanton, passionate woman of last night remained, they would need to be thoroughly concealed beneath the mask of Tudor competence she had perfected through years of necessity.
As Agnes bustled in with fresh water and linens, Elizabeth steeled herself for the day ahead. She was a Tudor, after all. If she could execute thirteen assassins without flinching, surely she could endure a council meeting with a sore ass.