Camille, the princess of the land, the patron of the tournament, the symbol of hope, the joy of the faithful, sat upon a plush throne on the edge of a cold, dark room. The stone floor and walls stood in stark contrast to her royal grandeur.
Her golden locks cascaded down in waves onto rich furs and exquisite silks. Her radiant cheeks were stained with deep crimson and her bone-white fingers trembled as they gripped the chair. Before her, there was a kneeling man whose features were entirely concealed by the thick pleats of her dress. Faint lapping was barely audible through the layers.
However, her attention was somewhere else entirely. One of her emerald eyes was squeezed shut so that the other may peer through a hole in the adjacent wall. Through this tiny and very intentional opening, she watched a raven-haired slut sucking cock.
Though she only wore barely enough for the weather, her clothing crushed down upon her. Every breath was a herculean effort, made even harder still by her vain effort to maintain an air of dignity. Her heart felt like it was going to explode, but she barely noticed between the riveting sights beyond and the dutiful consolation between her legs.