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Goddammit! Is that really how it fits?! Peering at yourself in the looking glass in front of you, and at the state of the dress bunched up and bloated on your waist, you confirm that no, it’s definitely not how it’s supposed to look. Huffing exasperatedly, you attempt to push and flatten the fabric down –but the laces and the corset are suffocating you, the thin but multi-layered gown flutters everywhere and you’re starting to get sweaty, the dress clings to you and-
"Felicia!"
You are more than reticent to summon your maid –and friend- into this. You never insisted, far from it, to wear this revealing piece of a garb; are your breasts even expected to rise up so close to your throat? As you’re moments from tearing the robe into a thousand shreds, Camilla’s face comes to mind. You still recall the innocently deceptive smile gracing her roseate lips, her eyes seemingly lidded into an expression of sisterly concern, but really fuming slits of undisputable demand.
“It is big brother’s coronation,” she said, twisting a wavy strand of hair in-between her fingers,” a bit of care would do you good… You’d be even cuter than you already are.”
With that, she pinched your cheek lovingly and spun around while swaying her hips, confessing that the mentioned dress had already been delivered to your quarters.
You immediately loosen your fists off the finely weaved textile, regaining your composure. You were never one for fancy garments or feminine ornaments: you much preferred the smell of rust and leather to that of smothering perfume, the soft, flexible skin of your battle armor to that of intricate clothes.
“My lady, I am here to-”
You turn around with an apologetic smile, ready to plead for your maid’s aid, but stutter when you realize the voice is doubtlessly not Felicia’s. Instead you’re greeted by a flushed and gaping Jakob, still holding his characteristic butler bow, hand folded into his stomach to his other arm.
“My lady, I- I’m terribly sorry,” he stumbles over his words like a child caught in an humiliating act, keeping his head downwards, ”Felicia asked me to replace her before your door while she prepared a meal for you, I was unware-”
“Jakob, perfect timing,” you interrupt him, completely oblivious to the immodest precariousness of your situation, “I really need help with this stupid thing, I can’t get the laces tied, or anything else, for that matter.”
You turn back to the mirror, pointing him the intertwining maze of strings on your back. As he still seems stuck in place, fumbling and debating internally, eyes darting between you and the door, you coax him closer, still insisting on the mess of netting.
“P-princess, I am unsure this is fit of my duties,” still, he closes in on you, examining the structure of the fasteners.
“Well,” you start, “It’ll be definitely easier for you than for me to try and contort my spine,” you finish with a coy smile.
At the same time, your gazes meet in the mirror; why are his cheeks so red?
It’s not that you are completely ignorant or inexperienced with the savory things that can ensue between a man and a woman: you’ve nearly grown up with Jakob, and the thought simply never has occurred to you yet, although his appearance is more than pleasing on the eye.
Unbeknownst to you though, Jakob has a completely different experience. His usually assured hands are trembling ever so slightly as he reaches for the laces, tugging gently to untie the knots you had made. Every time his fingertips graze the skin of your back he jumps a little, afraid to offend you. He tries vainly to swallow the lump blocking his throat, but just a glance at the enhanced swell of your breasts has him on the edge. The collar of his blouse is unbearably tight around his neck.
The sigh of relief that flits from your lips as he finally loosen the corset burns his cheeks even hotter, and he reacts by securing the strings immediately, pulling a little too forcefully. You are unprepared for it, and your hips cave in towards his own, a small cry of surprise leaving your crushed lungs as your bum conveniently –or unfortunately? Jakob isn’t sure- presses against the growing hardness in his pants. He grits his teeth, repressing a husky growl, a feat incredibly difficult considering your heedless words.
“Ah! Jakob! It’s way too tight,” you anchor your hands on the frame of the mirror, looking past your shoulder, eyes glistening with moisture from the strain, “I’ll never be able to endure it all day!”
By some kind of unidentifiable miracle he succeeds in keeping his bearings, opting instead to curse under his breath at the way you taunt him so, unable to pinpoint if you are actually being a tease or are of childish unawareness. He clears his throat, hoping it wouldn’t sound too hoarse.
“My lady… I hardly think I can be of assistance in this situation. A… more effeminate person such as Flora or Felicia may be of greater help. I apologise for my incompetence.”
You swiftly face him –Gods, your breasts bounce so alluringly in that dress-, bitter expression shrouding your features.
“Jakob!” you cross your arms under your chest, and he has to muster all of his willpower not to plunge his stare there, “once again you underestimate your capacities. I couldn’t ask for better service; you know you are my precious butler.”
Jakob is at the same time thankful and hurt, flattered you think so highly of him and yet dejected that the admiration you bear him is also his downfall: because a butler is all he is. In that moment of lucid melancholy, he has no difficulty looking at your pouting face. He observes the kind, concerned glint of your eyes, the delicate luster of your skin that beguiles him so, the smooth curves of your lips –and then the expanding firmness in his lower suit is not the only thing throbbing faster. His pulse flutters in his veins, beating madly in his ears, so much that it takes a while to realise you’d been calling his name.
“-ob! Jakob,” you smile at him widely but shyly, “you’ve been staring for a while… I look ridiculous, don’t I?” you glance down with a sour, sorrowful frown, “There’s no way I’m worth of my title… I’m more akin to a dirty, ill-mannered soldier”.
The sight of you opening to him, chewing your lower lip worriedly then shifting for a woeful smile fills him with resolve. The severe air cast upon his traits then causes you to forget breathing, all air caught in your throat, his fine features imprinted with a bold, masculine charm. You don’t even dare answer his request, letting him speak freely.
“My lady. Please allow me to be entirely sincere with you. I, as your butler, couldn’t ask for a better master myself,” he bathes shortly in a moment of silence, weighing his next words carefully, “but, as your friend –no,” he gulps down heavily, looking you deep in the eyes, pupils unwavering, “please forgive me for what I am about to do…”
Seconds later his mouth is on yours, his hand dragging you closer by the threads on the front of your corset. The kiss is soft but passionate, his lips framing yours so perfectly, pressing heatedly into you. He backs slowly away, hand holding you near him by the hip. His eyes are lidded with affection and warmth, peering into your own bewildered ones.
“… As someone who is unbelievably endeared to you,” he pulls you flush to him, your breasts pressing into his chest, his other hand thumbing the small of your back, “I do believe you are of the most exceptional caliber, be it on the field or in the royal court.”
You finally articulate words, though rudimentary:
“Jakob…Do you –do you mean..?”
His voice is a whisper, barely audible, loaded with zeal and devotion, his eyes boring endlessly into you, two scorching pits of cinders setting you aflame.
“My lady… I love you,” his thumb paws the contour of your cheek, “and you wear this dress stunningly.”
At this point your mind is a nebulous twister of thoughts crashing into one another: Jakob, your dedicated butler, in love with you? Then again, the way he kissed you, how his eyes focus only on your singular existence, and the tender traces of his fingers on your skin –you have no difficulty believing it. Your heart romps uncontrollably in your ribcage. You think about how this man had always been there for your needs, more out of genuine concern than duty, how he always cared for you well-being. Gradually, it dawns upon you: admiring the ashen locks framing his gentle face, the crimson dusting his cheeks topped with fearless, abysmal amethyst eyes, you cannot help but want this man, immediately.
Instead of wasting breath on words, you choose action: your lips return the kiss given earlier, your hands fisting the material of his elegant shirt. Jakob’s grip falters slightly as you reciprocate his feelings, only to clamp around you tighter, hands winding in your hair and hugging your waist. Out of boldness you prod your tongue on his lips, brushing sensually along them. Jakob instantly accepts it, welcoming it with his own. His slick, lukewarm muscle leads the dance as it tangles with yours, progressively receding from your mouth, his teeth biting and pulling carefully at your lower lip before you break away from each other.
Your mind is not in any way clearer than earlier, but you do know one thing: you need more of his hands on your body, and more of yours on him. You gaze up to him, vision hazy with restful elation. His skin still bears the color of diluted blood on his cheekbones and his eyes are alight with glee and hunger.
“My lady-” you admonish him at the formal term, insisting he calls you by name. He clears his throat with abashed fervor, unaccustomed to the intimacy, “-you are unware of how happy I am-”
You interrupt him for the second time, shushing him tenderly by pushing a single finger to his lips.
“Jakob… This dress is still way too tight for my tastes right now,” you emphasize your point by bringing your chest to his, cushioning it insistently so he has a front row seat to your womanly charms, “couldn’t you help me with it..?” you chew your lip playfully as you look up at him, all the while tugging at the corset’s strings.
For the umpteenth time since he entered your room, Jakob has to hold back his urge to take you up right now against the wall, feeling his shaft swell painfully in his attire. He gives you a sultry look, discarding the gauntlet covering his forearms as he starts to wrench the parts of the corset slowly apart.
“That, on the other hand, is more than fit of my duties.”
Nimbly and quickly, he releases your breasts from their confines, and immediately your breathing is eased, chest heaving and arching into his touch. His thumbs glide along the curves of your breasts, flicking your nipples lasciviously before grasping the fullness of your mounds, rolling them gently but vigorously in his palms. You gasp at the needles of pleasure prickling at your skin, urging his head closer by burying your hands in his soft ashen-white bangs. Instantly, his mouth latches on one of your nipples, his other hand keeping up its ministrations. His tongue is hot and skillful on the areola of your breast, mapping lazy and wet circles around it. His teeth nip and pluck your nipple cautiously, switching to your other breast to bestow upon it the same treatment.
After moments of the faint pleasure, you push Jakob back reluctantly, falling to your knees in front of him.
“Jakob,” you stare back at him with a lustful expression, desire prominent in your voice, “please, let me service you for this once.”
His hands shoot to your head as you struggle a bit to undo his pants, breathless and agitated at the idea of taking his cock in your mouth.
“Wait, I should be-” but you don’t falter, hand digging further in his underwear to release his ragging hard-on, gapping at the sight of the thick, pulsing member already leaking pre-cum by its tip, “-It is unappropriated, for you to be on your knees.”
Your eyes meet his flustered gaze, never blinking, “Jakob, as we are–” your hand grasps the base of his member, teasing it softly, “-as someone highly infatuated with you- this is how it should be.”
You engulf the tip of his length in your mouth, licking experimentally at the tip as you start pumping your hand. Jakob moans deeply, his hand burrowing in-between your strands of hair to anchor himself. Your tongue revolves around the head of his dick, lapping then circling it, warmth and saliva coating gradually his shaft as it drips at the corners of your lips. His breaths are already faster and ragged, pleasure evident in the rasps saturating his voice. You finally swallow his generous length deeper, the tip scrapping gruelingly at the back of your throat when you reach your limit; your hand strokes what remains of him.
Jakob’s hips soon jerk in tandem with your movements, seeking to sink more of his cock into your warm orifice. His hands pet and smooth the hair back on your head, sometimes clutching a little more forcefully when the pang of pleasure rips through him. When his thrusts grow more erratic and needy, you feel he is close to his end: you purse your lips further, tightening around him, compelling yourself to take him deeper –
-but suddenly his shaft is out of your mouth, the only connection remaining a string of saliva dangling from his tip to your lips. Confused, you look up to him with quizzical eyes. His face glistens with perspiration and the evidence of arousal.
“I’m sorry,” he catches his breath, holding your shoulders in order to keep you away from him, and for a moment you think he’ll back out from this, “I just… If you would allow me… I –I would like to take you.”
As if he’d have to ask –but his words contribute to flare up your own arousal between your legs. You need him to take you right now. You jump to your feet, trying hurriedly to take off that goddamn freakin’ dress hindering your every move –however Jakob’s hands clamp over yours, halting all your desperate maneuvers.
In a daring, audacious decision, he asks –though it stems more from a directive, “Let me take the lead. And leave the dress on.”
Your heart leaps in your chest at the unbridled, carnal longing blazing in his gaze, and you cannot help but comply. Jakob promptly turns you around and flattens his palm on your lower back, bending you over: you have to support yourself on the wall to keep steady, eyes closed in anticipation. Despite the nearly corporeal craving festering between the two, nothing comes for several seconds: only the delectable caresses from Jakob’s hands. You open your eyes to find the reason of his inaction: you hadn’t realised you’d been inclined in front of the mirror, hands on either side, Jakob staring fervently at your reddened face and heaving chest.
Immediately, your face is flushing darker, like a garnet’s hue, “Ja-Jakob! Let’s just change-”
It’s his turn to interrupt you, albeit gently, “No. I want to see you like this, and I want you to see yourself like this; maybe then you will understand how captivating and desirable you are.”
By the time he hikes up the fabric of your gown over your bum, your juices are already soaking through your underwear, and only a slight brush of his finger against your swollen cunt has you writhing and moaning, your breath fogging up the looking glass. Hurried noises of clothes shuffling reach your ears and seconds later your panties are moved aside, Jakob’s hard and smooth erection spreading your outer lips. His movement are so languid and calculated that you’re ready to impale yourself on his girth out of greedy need, but before you can barely inch backwards he bends over you, his broad chest, hovering slightly over your back. One of his hands keeps you open for him while the other extends to your neck, cupping your under-chin to force your head upwards so you peer into your own dazed reflection.
His voice is just inches from your ear, “Let us watch every one of your minute reaction together.”
So he says, but as soon as his cock fills you, your vision goes white and you cry out so loudly you fear the castle guard will show up –but Jakob doesn’t relent. Insisting that you keep your eyes open and affixed to the mirror, he begins plowing into your cunt, hands firm on your hips. Pain and pleasure blend in a sublime, jarring and ineffable sensation of fullness with his first thrusts, before your sensitive walls stretch around him.
When Jakob picks up on your increasing pleasure, swelling proportionally with the frequency and volume of your moans, he sets a rougher, faster pace, his eyes either fixated on your bouncing breasts or your face contorted in euphoria. The room soon brims with the echoes of your bliss –your repeated sighs and Jakob’s low-toned, guttural groans- and the snapping of his hips against your fleshy buttocks. Your legs quiver and your arms shake both from the pleasure and the effort to hold your position: you think you’ll slump to the floor soon if this goes on for much longer.
Yet, as if reading in your mind, Jakob pulls you up, grasping your arms to stabilize your body as he keeps drilling mercilessly into you. His mouth is biting faint marks on the crook of your neck, eyes still lingering on your panting, vulnerable form, your own admiring the way your bodies mingle and fit so exquisitely. A particularly pleasurable jolt of his dick onto your G-spot has you spasm almost violently, and your arms wind up around his neck, drawing your undulating bodies even nearer and allowing Jakob to reach for your aching clit.
The combination of his ruthless plowing and the circles traced on your tender nub has you on the edge of ecstasy: implacable rapture sparks throughout your limbs, contracting your muscles so tense you think they’ll tear.
“Ah-Jakob, I’m so- I’m so close,” you cry as you make eye contact with him in the mirror.
His only answer is an imperceptible nod and a sensual kiss to your shoulder as he fucks you fiercely, grunting louder and rubbing your clit with renewed energy.
Only moments later you both reach your breaking point, orgasm bursting powerfully in the pit of your lower abdomen, strings of unintelligible words leaving your lips as Jakob pours his release in your deepest parts, a cry of your name drifting to your ears through the clamors of blood beating against your eardrums.
When you both catch your breath again, still somewhat basking in the aftermath of your heavenly bliss, you both struggle to keep the dress clean as Jakob withdraws from your entrance and his sperm leaks along your thighs. The task is made arduous by the quantity of fabric and creases, your sweaty forms still exhausted by your sexual feat. You bump foreheads and hands more than a couple of times before Jakob can finally retrieve a handkerchief from his pants, and you’re both laughing giddily and heartily at your combined clumsiness.
Once the laughter quiets, Jakob seems suddenly awkward; you know he worries he might have overstepped his boundaries, though the act was mutual. Before he can express his fears and apologies, give him a peck on the lips then speak honestly and confidently:
“Don’t.”
You straighten the jeweled scarf around his neck, continuing;
“Don’t you think it’s time we promote you for your hard-invested efforts?”
Jakob seems taken aback from the sudden change of subject, “What exactly do you mean..?”
You smile widely at his ignorant state, “I mean that maybe if we could succeed in actually arranging this dress on me, we could use it for another ceremony than my brother’s coronation.”
Jakob’s eyes widen as he catches on, his cheeks once again rosy as he repeats his formal bow.
“My lady-”
“Jakob!”
You shake your head dejectedly; as this situation proves it, you could definitely take the butler out of his suit, but never the butler out of his host.