She pulled back just enough to whisper, "Let me free you, my love." Her hands deftly unfastened his breeches, pushing them down along with his underthings.
His erection sprang free, large and painfully ready. She knelt before him, her eyes never leaving his, a silent invitation. He could feel the heat radiating from her, taste her desire on his tongue. She licked her lips, a slow, sensual gesture, then slowly, deliberately, she took him into her mouth.
It was a revelation. Her tongue was silk, her mouth a furnace. His vision blurred, the pleasure so intense, so immediate after a lifetime of repression, that he felt himself teetering on the edge. He gasped, his hands tangling in her fiery hair, pulling her closer, deeper.
"Oh, Isolde," he groaned, unable to hold back. He felt the unmistakable tremor building, a fierce, uncontrollable wave. He had no control, no experience to pace himself. The first wave hit, too fast, too strong.
"My sweet," she murmured against him, taking him deeper, her hands expertly stroking him, "So much desire, so quickly."
He came, an explosive, shuddering release, his body arching, his mind consumed by pure sensation. It was over almost as soon as it began, a primal, overwhelming torrent. He slumped against the wall, panting, his knees weak.
She pulled away with a smile on her lips, a sheen of his cum glistening on her chin. She licked it away, her eyes never leaving his.
"Such a delight, my Elaraion," she purred, rising to her feet. "And you are so big, my love. So very big."
Elaraion said nothing. He stood at the spot, shivering and huffing.
She pulled his hand and led him to the massive bed, pulling him down onto the soft, silken sheets. She lay on her stomach, her ass lifted slightly, a graceful curve of flesh that made his mouth water.
"Come, my love," she invited, her voice a sultry whisper. "Enter me from behind. Take me now."
His cum still clung to his inner thighs, but his cock was already stirring, hardening again, drawn by her brazen invitation. He moved behind her, positioning himself, his hands tracing the line of her spine, her ribs, and the soft swell of her breasts as they pressed into the mattress.
He leaned down, burying his face in her fiery hair, inhaling her unique scent of roses and raw passion. He kissed her shoulder and her neck, his lips trailing fire across her skin.
He pushed forward, slowly at first, then with a confident thrust. The sensation was incredible. Her vagina was tight, wet, and incredibly hot, gripping him with a welcome pressure. He felt the soft, yielding walls, the moist friction.
He heard her moan, a soft, pleased sound, as he filled her. He began to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his hips pressing against her ass, grinding, pushing deeper with each thrust.
"Ah, yes, Elaraion," she moaned, arching into him, her voice thick with pleasure. "More. You are so sweet. So very sweet. Deeper, my love, deeper."
He complied, driving into her with a newfound ferocity, caught in the rhythm, lost in the sensations. The feel of her body moving with his, the sound of her gasps, the sweet friction of their skin — it was all a dizzying, intoxicating dance.
He felt the familiar building pressure again, but this time, he fought it, trying to prolong the ecstasy, to savor every thrust, every deep plunge. He focused on her moans, on the tightening around him, on the way her body seemed to melt into his.
He pulled out, reluctant, but driven by a new desire. He flipped her onto her back, her legs parting for him, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion.
"Ride me," he commanded, his voice hoarse, raw with desire. "Ride me, Isolde."
She smiled, a triumphant, wicked glint in her eyes. "As you wish, my King."
She straddled him, her hairy pussy hovering just above his eager cock. She lowered herself slowly, taking him inside her in one long, sensuous slide.
The feel of her full weight pressing down, the intimate embrace of her inner thighs against his, the warmth of her wetness as she took him fully – it was a sensation unlike any other.
He reached up, his hands tangling in her fiery hair, then sliding down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, cupping her buttocks, urging her deeper.
He kneaded her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, watching them harden under his touch. His fingers explored her entire body, marveling at the smooth, soft flesh, the delicate curves, the subtle ridges of her collarbones, and the tautness of her belly.
She began to move, a slow, sensual grind at first, then picking up speed, riding him with an abandon that stole his breath. Her head tossed back, and her moans grew louder, more urgent. He watched her face, contorted in pleasure, her eyes closed, her lips parted in a silent cry.
"Oh, Elaraion!" she cried out, her voice breaking, her body seizing with tremors. "I love you! I love you, Elaraion! Marry me! Marry me, and become the King Consort of Aethelgard!"
Her words, spoken amidst the throes of her climax, resonated deep within him. It was done. He had achieved his goal. She shuddered above him, her body convulsing in a final, exquisite climax, and then she collapsed onto his chest, panting, her skin slick with sweat.
They lay there, entwined, bodies still warm and intimately pressed together, the scent of sex clinging to the silken sheets. Isolde's head rested on his chest, her breath soft and even. He stroked her hair, his mind racing.
She had declared her love, her desire for him to be King Consort. The arrow had worked, powerfully. But as he lay there, amidst the satiated aftermath, a subtle unease began to prick at him.
Will the effects of the arrow diminish? With this profound intimacy, this raw vulnerability she now showed him, will the magical compulsion weaken?
Would her true self, her defiance, eventually resurface and rebel against this forced affection? The thought was a chilling one, a seed of doubt in his moment of triumph.
Suddenly, a sound. Not a moan, not a rustle of silk, but a deep, guttural roar that vibrated through the very stones of the palace. It was followed by a flicker of orange light from the window, then a wave of immense, almost unbearable heat.
They both looked towards the tall, arched window overlooking the capital city. From the distant villages, a terrifying sight unfolded.
A massive, scaly form, dark against the fading night sky, flew across the landscape. A dragon. It banked, its immense wings beating the air with a sound like thunder, and then opened its terrifying maw, unleashing a torrent of fire that engulfed a cluster of homes, turning them into blazing pyres.
Before the echoes of the roar and the screams could fully register, a deafening gong sounded, its deep boom vibrating through the palace, a sound of alarm. It was the general call for soldiers, for defense. Panic flared in Isolde's eyes. She scrambled upright, pulling the sheet to cover herself, her face pale.
"A dragon!" she gasped, her voice trembling. "Oh, the gods preserve us! The beasts have returned!"
Elaraion, however, felt a different stir. He was still processing the raw power of the arrow, its ability to command will and desire. He watched the dragon, majestic and terrifying, as it soared through the inferno it had created.
A thought, bold and impossibly audacious, ignited in his mind, eclipsing any fear.
"Can my arrow work on animals too? Can I own a dragon?"