When the Queen Kneels Pt. 05

When The Queen Kneels Part 5

Stephanie didn't sleep. Or rather, her body did--she must have drifted at some point--but her mind never stopped. It played over every moment in a loop: the heat of the sun on her back, the cold splash of hose water, the way the soap clung to her skin, the way her nipples had stayed stiff the entire time. The way Leon had looked at her. Like she was prey ripe for slaughter. It was humiliating and hot and fucked and hot and awful and.....

Stephanie forced her mind out of the spiral just enough to get dressed. At work, the halls of the Humanities building were quiet, too quiet, like they all somehow knew. Her heels struck linoleum too sharply. Her blazer fit too tightly over the swell of her chest, which still felt overlarge, hypersensitive. She'd selected the most modest pencil skirt she owned. She still felt obscene. Her own clothes felt like a lie. She was a lie. Powerful women don't wash men's cars in bikinis. Powerful women don't lose to losers like Leon.

Then she saw him, Leon, standing outside his office with that ingratiating smirk she fucking hated. Standing outside his office, sipping from a travel mug covered in peeling stickers. His shirt, a short-sleeved button-up with sweat already soaking the pits, hung limply over his small frame. His cargo shorts were likely stained with some year-old microwave burrito detritus. His unkempt hair sat like greasy moss on his head.

"Oh hey," he said, casual as anything, like they'd merely crossed paths after a faculty meeting. "You get all the soap off?"

Stephanie flinched. And then turned a shade of pink at how easily she had Leon provoke her. She hated him. She loathed the way he talked, the way his eyes lingered on her chest, making it clear that was what he was most interested in about her.

He stepped closer. "I was thinking," he said, barely above a murmur now, glancing at the empty corridor behind them. " "You could go viral for that carwash. All it would take is one little post."

As Stephanie turned the color of a ripe plum with rage, he strolled away whistling.

"Fuck off," she snapped as he walked away.

The next day Leon continued to torment Stephanie. She was sitting in her office and he let himself in like he belonged there, like the space wasn't hers. Another slow erasure of her authority over him.

"You're not allowed in here without an appointment," she said, her voice low, sharp, iced over.

He didn't even pretend to care. He closed the door behind him, not fully--just enough that it swung on its hinge and left a little gap

"You know," he began, "I told myself I wasn't gonna say anything. I was gonna be good. Respectful. Let you have your dignity back." He smiled, slow and oily. "But then I jerked off to that video for the fourth time last night."

Stephanie's mouth fell open in shock.

+

He just kept going.

"Four times. That's excessive, right? Like even for me." He grinned. "But I couldn't help it. It's just--there's this moment where you bend down to scrub under the bumper, and your ass lifts just so, and the suit cuts into you, and you do this little... wiggle. Like you know it's happening. Like you know how gooooood you look."

Her heart was pounding now. She should've screamed at him. She should've stood, shoved him out the door. Reported him. Threatened him. But she was so flustered by her own shame and arousal that she just took it. She just let him walk all over her.

He leaned closer.

"I've got the clip bookmarked. Muted, even. Don't need sound. Just looped it. I was gonna make a gif. Maybe I still will."

Stephanie's cheeks were burning. Her hands curled slowly into fists on the desk. She wasn't looking at him anymore--she was staring at a point on the floor just behind him, her jaw tight, her chest rising and falling faster than she wanted it to.

Leon tilted his head.

"You're blushing again."

"No, I'm not," she whispered, too fast.

"Oh, you are," he said, stepping around the chair now, inching closer. "You can feel it, can't you? The way your skin heats up. You love it. You love when I put you in your PLACE." Leon murmured confidently into Stephanie's ear.

Her eyes snapped up to him--ice-blue, furious, humiliated.

Finally regaining her sense of self she snapped, "Get the fuck out," but her voice cracked.

Bryce knew the moment she came through the front door.

Stephanie never slammed it. Not even when she was mad. She had too much control for that. But today it hit the frame like an accusation, and he heard the heels before he saw her--sharp, precise, punishing the hardwood. The kind of walk she used when she was about to crush someone in a debate or fire a TA.

He stood from the couch, already shirtless in gym shorts, and took a step toward her. "Hey babe--"

"Upstairs," she ordered, not even looking at him.

He hesitated, sensing the storm, but something in her voice--low, clenched, vibrating with tension--shot straight to his cock. He obeyed without a word, ascending the stairs like a summoned subject.

When he got to the bedroom, she was already unbuttoning her blouse. She stripped it off and let it fall to the floor before shedding the rest of her clothes. Her nipples were erect and she was flushed with arousal as she stood there like some Amazonian goddess come to collect her tribute.

"Get on the bed," she snapped.

Bryce obeyed again. She mounted him swiftly like a trained rider hopping onto a horse, straddling his chest, planting one hand beside his head for balance.

"Hands behind your head," she said.

He obeyed instantly, wrists crossed behind him, resting against the headboard.

Stephanie stared down at him. Her hair fell around her shoulders in golden waves, slightly mussed from the humidity of the day. Her lips were parted, breathing fast, and the look in her eyes was nothing short of furious.

"Don't speak," she said.

He didn't.

She sank down in one rough, hungry stroke. "Ah--f-fuck--"

Bryce gasped. Her warmth swallowed him immediately, tight, soaked, pulsing.

She fucked him like a problem she needed to solve. Stephanie rolled her hips, forward and down, hard and purposeful. The wet slap of flesh on flesh filled the room, and her breath came fast through gritted teeth. She stared down at him, not with love, not with affection, but with a fierce kind of desperate need. The kind of need that was new to Stephanie.

Even if Bryce wanted to speak, he was physically and mentally overwhelmed. Her body was overpowering in the best ways. She wasn't heavy, but not was she light and it required all of his strength to help hold her up as she used him like a living dildo. And her breasts. Her huge, proud breasts were shaking and shimmering in a way that looked like something out of anime. She was glowing with sweat, her clit grinding on his pelvis with every downward pump.

Her first orgasm tore through her without warning.

"Fuuuh--fuck!" she cried out, slamming down and grinding, her whole body shuddering. "Yes, yes, oh my god, yes--"

She didn't stop.

Bryce whimpered beneath her as her pussy clenched around him, milking him, hot and slick and impossibly tight. She leaned forward now, hands pinning his shoulders, her hair hanging like a curtain around their faces.

"You're not allowed to cum," she hissed.

"I won't!" he gasped, legs trembling.

She didn't give him time to recover. She started moving again with more punishing strokes, her soaked cunt swallowing him again and again, squelching loud now with every impact, as she threw herself up and down on his cock pulling herself up and down with the now creaking headboard.

Her second orgasm hit harder. "ahhhh. Fuck, Bryce, right there, right there." She howled, as she grabbed the headboard so hard that she almost ripped it off. She collapsed over him, not to rest, but to ride her orgasm out. Bryce watched in near shock as she continued grinding, humping him with savage purpose until she was panting and limp.

As she slid off him to lay there next to him, he remained rock hard. Stephanie didn't care. Grabbing his head, she pulled him down to her sex and he eagerly began to lick her. She had never tasted sweeter and it didn't take long until she came a third time--almost silently, as if her body was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of her pleasure.

They lay there like that for some time as Stephanie slowly recovered from whatever it was that had overcome her. At some point, she fell asleep nestled in Bryce's arms. As she woke up, she looked down and saw that his cock was still half-hard and twitching every so often.

Stephanie suddenly realized how selfish she had been. She had used him solely for her own pleasure and that wasn't ok. Particularly when she had done it to erase the impure thoughts of another man rattling around her subconscious.

She sat up suddenly, her hair a damp messy golden curtain around her shoulders. Bryce blinked over at her.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

Stephanie didn't answer right away. She just leaned over, her body casting a long shadow across his hips, and stared at his cock. It twitched again under her gaze. It wasn't very large, but it was thick, ready, and dependable just like her loving husband.

Stephanie almost never gave blowjobs. Not because she was prudish about sex. She had worn costumes and done stripteases and every position known to man. She just didn't do blowjobs. She found them inherently demeaning and submissive in a way that had never felt right. And, to be honest, any man lucky enough to have sex with Stephanie was willing to put up with whatever the fuck Stephanie would give him. Every time Bryce had asked in their early years of marriage, she'd deflected with sex, or with her hands, or even her words.

Now, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft and slowly breathed on it. That was enough to make him moan:

"Jesus, Steph..."

She didn't speak. She just leaned in and took the head of him into her mouth and began to suck.

Stephanie closed her eyes, breathing through her nose as she let him slide deeper. He tasted clean, warm, salty with sweat. She worked her tongue around the underside of his shaft, then pulled back, breathing through parted lips before lowering again. It still felt degrading to suck her husband's cock. There was something wrong about a powerful, dominant, respected woman like her with her lips wrapped around a cock.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a flash of what it would feel like to suck Leon's cock. She imagined the smell of his skin with some unwashed foul tang. She imagined his voice, as he taunted her with his fingers in her hair.

You're good at this, Professor. Who knew?

Her stomach turned. Her pussy clenched.

No, she thought, panicking.

The image wouldn't go. Wouldn't fade. It got clearer. More vivid. She sucked harder on Bryce, trying to drown it, to focus on the moans above her, the way he murmured her name like a prayer. She felt the pulse of his cock, the twitch of impending climax. And then...

Good girl, Leon said in her mind, voice smug, low.

She almost choked as with almost insanely imperfect timing Bryce unloaded a massive load of cum straight down her throat. She swallowed. She had no choice. And when she sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she wasn't sure what she felt more disgust... or arousal.

The next week was agonizing. Stephanie tried to reassert control over her life, but Leon was always there lingering, poking, infesting.

And he kept asking.

"Oh, Professor Dahlstrom--any thoughts on our next bet?" he'd say, sliding into a chair beside her during departmental lunches, crowding her space with his smell--instant ramen and body funk and that faintly plastic tang of energy drinks. And always--always--with the smirk.

At first, she ignored him as best she could. She poured herself into her lectures and tried to distract her mind. Bryce did his best to help keep her calm, but he kept a distance so that she could turn to him if she needed. But, Stephanie wasn't used to being vulnerable in that way, which Leon preyed upon. She wanted to handle Leon on her own.

Eavh day Leon chipped away.

"Still washing cars in your dreams?" he asked her one morning in the hallway, blocking her path with his stubby frame.

She spun on him.

"You're disgusting."

He grinned. "I'm right and you know how to make me spot. Just bet me again... sweetheart."

Every day.

"When's the next bet, Professor Babe?"

In the hallway. In passing. His voice low, casual, as though he were asking for a syllabus update.

"Can't wait for you to lose to me again." Leon would whisper as he got a cup of coffee next to her.

Stephanie never gave him the satisfaction of an answer. But she stopped rolling her eyes. Stopped glaring. She just went still. Leon's words followed her like static in her skull--unshakable, low-frequency, building by the day.

And the worst part, they both knew she was unraveling. She hadn't changed her wardrobe. She hadn't spoken his name. She hadn't made a single outward move toward surrender. But every day when Leon asked he could tell that her resolve was slipping.

Eventually, Stephanie decided to discuss what was happening with Bryce. "He said he'd stop," she whispered. "If I beat him."

Bryce turned his head. "Stop what?"

Stephanie hesitated. "Everything. The comments. The games. The looks. The... way he talks to me."

Bryce exhaled slowly. "And what'd you say?"

"I didn't." She shifted under the sheet. Her voice cracked. "I can't take much more of it, Bryce. It's not just annoying. It's in me. All the time. Like static. Like hunger." She turned her head sharply, locking eyes with him. "I hate him. I hate him. And I think about him constantly."

Bryce reached out, brushing her hair back, his fingers lingering behind her ear. "He's in your head."

"He lives there," she whispered. "Rent-free."

He moved closer now, chest brushing hers, face inches from her own. "You should destroy him."

"I should have already."

"Then do it," he said, voice hoarse. "Pick something. Win."

Her voice dropped lower. "And if I don't? If I lose again?" Her voice breaking

Bryce swallowed hard.

He was hard against her thigh. "You're sick," she hissed. He nodded. "So are you" as they ended up on the bed once more. And so they passionately fucked for the first time in days as both Bryce and Stephanie remained very unsure of whether or not Stephanie winning was the goal after all.

It happened on a Wednesday. Stephanie had crushed her morning lecture--half the class visibly stunned by the force of her argumentation, the other half frantically scribbling just to keep up. She was sharp, elegant, unassailable. Just another day in the world of Professor Dalhstrom. She was savoring a cup of coffee and a sense of power when he alked in.

"Morning, Professor," he said, reaching for the sugar, not looking at her. "You ever think about what happens if I win again?"

She didn't answer. She didn't flinch.

He smiled. "I have. I've got the stakes picked out."

Now she turned, slowly, her blue eyes sharp. "We haven't even agreed to a match."

"You will," he said, stirring his drink with a plastic stick like he had all the time in the world. "I trust you."

She blinked. "Trust me?"

Leon nodded. "You enjoy this more than I do." He sipped. "So I'm cutting to the chase."

Stephanie stared at him. She hated that t she hadn't walked away.

Leon leaned closer, just enough to violate her space.

"You lose," he murmured, "you come to my apartment. You cook me dinner. Wearing something I pick out."

Stephanie didn't move.

Leon smiled wider. "And you serve it like a proper host. Smiling. Pouring wine. Picking up dropped napkins."

Her thighs clenched.

"What's the game?" she asked quietly, not looking at him.

He leaned back, tossed the stir stick in the trash.

"Free throws," he said. "Best of ten."

Stephanie blinked. "That's it?"

"Basketball's your world," he said with a shrug. "Fair odds."

But they both knew better. It wasn't fair. Not because of the game. But because he'd live in her head.

"I win," she said, voice sharp, "you delete everything. And stop."

"Done," he said instantly. Then added: "If you win."

She turned and walked out, heels sharp, spine unbending.

But her mind had already played the scene. Already pictured the outfit. The dinner. The wine glass in her hand, trembling.

And Leon, seated with one ankle on his knee, watching her sweat over the stove like she was his little trophy on display.

That night, she told Bryce.

She stood in the doorway of their bedroom, arms crossed. Her voice flat.

"It's a free throw contest."

Bryce looked up from his tablet. "That's it?"

"He picked it."

"And the bet?"

She paused. "If I lose, I cook him dinner. At his place. In something he chooses."

Bryce stared. Blinked. Slowly lowered the tablet he had been working on to try to mask his excitement.

His cock stirred just from the mental image. He didn't even try to hide it.

Stephanie noticed. Her lips curled into something between disgust and resignation.

"You think it's hot," she muttered.

"You're already imagining the outfit, aren't you?" She asked insultingly.

Bryce stepped closer. His voice dipped. "yes, but so are you. I bet he'll ask you to wear something tight or perhaps translucent so he can see your nipples."

Stephanie hissed through her teeth. "Bryce."

"You're gonna lose and pretend to hate it," he whispered. "And you're gonna be Leon's little submissive slut for a night and then come home to me and fuck my brains out."

She shoved him onto the bed. And didn't say no.

The old campus gym was mostly empty. Just the low hum of distant HVAC and the echo of a single basketball bouncing on the hardwood floor. A few overhead lights flickered on, painting long streaks of light across the court, dull and dust-flecked. Stephanie stood at the free throw line, a ball in her hands, her stance locked in muscle memory.

She was dressed to win: sports bra under a black tank top, compression leggings hugging her sculpted legs, sneakers laced tight. No frills. No distractions. Her blonde hair was pulled into a sharp, high ponytail that swung like a metronome every time she moved.

Leon wore cargo shorts and a faded t-shirt

"Ten shots," he said. You start and shoot until you miss."

Stephanie didn't speak. She simply stepped up to the line.

Swish.

Her first ball slid through the net clean. No hesitation.

Leon gave a slow, mocking clap. "One for one. Hot start, Professor."

She ignored him.

Second shot: swish.

Third: swish.

Fourth: swish.

She was in rhythm. Her body knew this. It was her domain. Her fingers flicked just right, her legs braced with perfect balance. Four for four.

Leon whistled low. "Wow. Can't lie--kinda hypnotic. Those tits? Watching them bounce when you shoot?" He mimicked the motion of her shot, eyes flicking down to her chest. "It's like physics porn."

Stephanie's fifth shot bricked off the backboard and Leon picked up the ball. The sound echoed like a slap.

She turned sharply. "Shut your mouth."

He shrugged. "Hey. You're the one jiggling all over the place."

Leon stepped up to the line, spinning his ball casually. He missed the first shot badly but shrugged his shoulders as if it didn't matter.

"I've got all day to make my shots, as I'm not in my own head.

Stephanie nailed the next shot while glaring at him, but missed her next one.

Leon began making free throws one after another as he taunted her.

"See, I think this is the problem," he mused, shooting.

Swish.

"One miss, and you're unraveling."

Swish.

"Two misses, and suddenly you're not the goddess anymore, just another tall blonde with a superiority complex and a sweet rack."

Swish.

After he had made eight of his ten free throws he finally missed.

Stephanie's palms were sweating now. Not from exertion.

Her shot hit the rim, spun, dropped.

Barely. She heard him mutter: "Pity point."

She turned. "You're disgusting." And for a moment she tuned him out.

Swish.

Swish.

Swish.

She had two left. He had one. She needed to make both. He needed to miss. Her ninth ball left her fingers clean.

Swish.

But her hands were shaking now. Her breathing short. She could feel her bra clinging to her, could feel her nipples hard and visible through the tight fabric. She imagined what he saw when she jumped. She couldn't stop imagining it.

"Last one," she muttered, voice dry.

Leon said nothing. Just stood off to the side, watching her like a chess player about to checkmate. Then, right as she stepped up, he said:

"Just think, when you lose, I get to pick your outfit. I might go for something backless. Or crotchless. Maybe I'll make you wear an apron and nothing else while you slice onions. You'll lean over, and I'll just sit at the table... watching. Watching your perfect ass work just like I have been watching everytime you shot."

The shot clanked off the rim.

Leon's final shot cut through the air like a blade. His tenth.

Swish.

"You know," he said, voice quiet now, not mocking--relishing, "it's not just that you lost. It's how."

She said nothing.

"You didn't miss because you're bad." He leaned closer. "You missed because I got inside you."

Her lips parted. Her throat was dry.

"You missed because you pictured it." He smiled. "Me. Sitting at the table. Watching you sweat."

Still, she said nothing.

"And now," he added, tone giddy like a kid on Christmas morning, "you get to come over. Cook. Wear whatever I tell you. Serve me like a good little host."

Stephanie turned away, shoulders stiff.

But she felt it.

The tight heat between her legs. The flush on her chest. The horrible, euphoric thrill spiraling in her stomach.

She had lost.

Again.

And she was more aroused than she'd ever been in her life.

Broken.

Exhilarated.

Trapped.

And walking directly into the next humiliation.