The castle pantry was warm and dark. Ada leaned back against a wall, him in the folds of her skirt, his tongue in the folds of her sex. She bit her lip to stifle a moan.
It was good to be a princess.
He was the chef’s apprentice and he had arrived at the castle sometime in the past year. She had first caught sight of him through a crack in the kitchen door, when it had been propped open to let out some of the heat. A warm current that smelled of buttery meat and roasting vegetables had washed over her. She had peeked inside. He had been standing over a trussed turkey, knife in hand, curly hair tied back from his face, eyes narrow with focus and tongue sticking out between his full lips.
That tongue had proved to be one of his most talented assets, both when he was cooking and when he was… eating.
She’d found excuses to linger by the kitchen, to request pastries or sliced fruit. The chef herself had long stopped humoring Ada’s requests for late night snacks but the apprentice obliged. The chef allowed this because she had been less concerned about depriving Ada and more so about deferring the queen’s ire; the queen had come to personally scold the chef for allowing Ada to become ‘too thick’.
Ada had rolled her eyes and scoffed. If her mother wanted to be willowy, that was fine for her. But, Ada liked the way that her breasts filled her hands, that her ass jiggled when she shook it at one of her lust-eyed lovers and that her thighs brushed each other just below her sex.
Ada knew her mother’s other motivation was to keep her away from just this kind of late night kitchen flirting. But Ada would not be contained, not by a corset and not by the queen’s disapproval.
The chef’s apprentice, for his part, was all too happy to offer her chocolate squares, strawberry tarts and apple slices. She had further requested sausages and turkey legs and he had obliged with a gulp. She had eaten them lingeringly, with ample moaning and licking of her fingers. Ada loved the way that his face first flushed red and then drained pale as the blood traveled elsewhere.
Glimpses of his erection in the front of his trousers had been her favorite late night treat in those early days when she was wooing him.
Finally, she had asked to cook with him and he had nearly fainted with excitement. He had taken her into the pantry, which was lined with shelf after shelf of foodstuffs. Jars of pickles and bags of flour, boxes of sugar and barrels of oil and wine. In the night it was quiet and dark and close, a labyrinth that provided ample hidden corners.
She had placed her fingers on the base of his neck and whispered her proposal in his ear. “Would you like to eat something sweet I’ve made?”
“Y-yes, please, Your Majesty!”
She had found a suitable barrel and sat back, lifting her layered skirts just enough for him to slip beneath. He had needed no further instructions.
As a chef he knew how to please the tongue, and as a lover he knew how to please with the tongue.
For the past two months, she’d been coming to the pantry nearly every night, as much as she could get away with. She’d lost count of how many times now. There had been a trip to a neighboring kingdom that had denied her for several days, but the hunger only made the taste that much more delicious.
Ada had offered to attend to him also, but he had stutteringly refused. Perhaps he was embarrassed or perhaps he felt it was above his station, or both. That was the one part that disappointed her.
It was fun to be Her Majesty, to play the character of the demanding and entitled royalty. It was the closest she ever got to acting ‘like a princess’ as her parents were always telling her to, and it was the way that made them most furious of all. The malicious compliance especially aroused her.
And yet, it was lonely that nobody knew her as herself. Not ‘Her Majesty’, just ‘Ada’. Ada loved to give pleasure as much as she loved to receive it. With the chef’s apprentice, Ada longed to make good on everything she’d implied sucking on sausages in front of him.
Alas, he had declined. And she wouldn’t pressure him any further. She had made that mistake before, not realizing that her playful insistence still held the weight of ‘Her Majesty’.
So, she was more careful now. She couldn’t imagine how he managed. It wasn’t that the experience didn’t arouse him. She saw his erection clearly through his trousers both as she arrived and left. He’d taken to wearing an apron even when he wasn’t actually cooking, which meant that these troubles plagued him even outside their rendezvous.
One night, after his talented palate brought her to another height of quivering pleasure, she had asked him.
“You prefer I don’t help relieve you,” she had said.
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
“But you might understand that I only ask because I care for you… however do you manage?”
His face had reddened. “It’s nothing I can’t handle myself, Your Majesty.”
Ada had grinned like she had just bit into one of his sweet strawberry tarts. “You handle yourself?”
He had hesitated. But, perhaps emboldened by her positive reaction, he’d nodded slightly.
“Here, in the pantry?” She had been gripped with the thrill.
He had nodded.
“How often?” She had hoped it was all the time.
He’d turned his eyes down towards the bags of flour next to them. “O-often…”
She had imagined it immediately. Him sneaking away from the kitchen, his hands still slick with butter. Him carefully undoing his trousers and then melting into a sweet release that relaxed all the focus out of his face, that left him blissy-eyed, that left his perfect tongue hanging out of his mouth. Him hearing a noise and shifting back into his expression of focus and forcing himself to stay silent, bringing himself to climax and completion just in time to holler back that he’d had trouble finding the pickled eggs, but he had them now.
Was ‘often’ daily? Multiple times a day? Did the kitchen think he was terrible at finding ingredients? Had he ever run out of time and forced himself to stop just before the brink of relief and dragged himself back to work?
Did he think of her all day? Did he handle himself before their visits? Was that the only reason he could keep his composure so well? Because he had vigorously, secretly masturbated to her earlier?
Her heart had raced, her arousal rekindling as she thought of all the possibilities.
“Would you show me?” She had breathed. Might he finally?
He’d shaken his head frantically. “I musn’t, Your Majesty!”
“That’s alright,” she’d said, suddenly feeling guilty, hoping to sound as assuring as possible.
“I fear I… I fear I might make you upset!” He’d looked up at her with wide, brown eyes.
“You haven’t!” She had regretted saying anything and had cupped his face in her hand. It had still been wet with her. “The only thing that could make me upset is if you agree to do something with me that you don’t actually want to do, alright?”
“Promise me you won’t.”
“I promise, your majesty.”
“Alright, then.” She had stood and arranged her skirts. “I’ll leave you to… handle yourself.” She’d winked at him, put her fingers to her mouth and licked them off long and slow.
That time, she’d seen his erection even through his apron.
Ada had wound back out through the labyrinthine shelves of the pantry but lingered before leaving.
The sound of his panting was just audible, almost mistakable for a mouse rummaging in a bag of wheat. Then, then a poorly stifled moan had reached her ears like the delicious smell of chocolate cake wafting down a hallway.
It had taken all her willpower to leave then and not indulge her voyeuristic desires. Though, that had hardly stopped her from imagining. She fantasized about him panting there, thinking of her, masturbating over and over and over again, until he was totally spent.
Though that’s actually what she had done — masturbated to the thought of him — quietly under her covers, over and over again, until her arm was too tired to lift and she was totally spent.
She indulged in that memory now. Imagination was the kind of magic that allowed a person to be in two places at once. In fantasy he masturbated next to her while in actuality his talented tongue pressed up even more deeply inside of her. He hummed with pleasure, as if he had just tasted a particularly delicious strawberry.
In the past few weeks, she’d gotten bolder. Lately, she hadn’t been able to force herself to wait until the middle of the night, so she had started to sneak to the kitchen between meals or in the early morning. This day, it was the quiet lull between lunch and tea time.
She stroked her fingers through his curly brown hair. He allowed her at least this gesture of appreciation.
He was far from the first or the only lover she’d had. She’d been with her ladies in waiting, scribes, knights, squires, even another princess. If they were too much older than her it got a bit awkward, and she was swift to decline anyone who seemed too much a child. But, beyond that there were few limits to her attractions.
The queen could not make up her mind whether Ada had so many affairs because she was not yet married, or that she was not yet married because she had so many affairs. The queen had become convinced in recent years that Ada would die alone, even though she was only twenty and three. Apparently, that made her an old maid by princess’ standards. And yet, her lovers seemed to find her plenty hearty and hale.
“You’re my favorite,” she whispered to the chef’s apprentice. He had been for at least two moons now, that was something impressive. Her affections usually did not linger this long, but he was something special.
He moaned in appreciation and the earnestness of it started to tilt her over the edge. Her chest heaved, her heart raced, her blood tingled, her eyes started to roll back. It was like the feeling of pure honey on her tongue, or a ripe berry between her lips, or the smell of herbs on roasted meat — abject pleasure.
“Fuck, yes… yes… Aaaah!~”
Her fingers in his hair clenched and pulled hard. She couldn’t help it, not when she had to hold in a scream of pleasure, which fought to escape her chest.
He buried deeper and still licked her even as she shuddered through her climax, even as her legs clamped around his head.
Finally, she relented. He stilled, then stood from under her skirts. His face was wet with her and bright with a grin. She smoothed his curls down, stroking him gently, and he purred in her hands.
“Sorry for pulling,” she said.
“I don’t mind at all,” he said. In fact, it sounded like he rather enjoyed it.
There was a creak of footsteps in the hall.
“Aw, fuck,” she said. “Off you go!”
He glanced at the pantry door and nodded, dashing into a dark corner between shelves of pickled vegetables.
The door slammed open and cast a bright wedge of light on Ada. The king loomed in a red cloak and a halo of righteous fury.
Mercifully, Ada’s skirts had never compromised her ‘modesty’. She smoothed them and her hair, trying to look nonchalant.
“What are you doing in here?” the king demanded.
Ada shrugged, examining her fingernails. She doubted she was going to get away with it this time, but it was worth a try. “You know I like the dark. It helps me think.”
The king’s nostrils flared. “I know what I heard. I know what I smell. That’s it! I’m sending you to a tower!”