Cersei was sitting in her bedchamber, a goblet of wine in her hand. She was aware that she'd been drinking more than she should lately but she did not care. Not one bit. Her husband was dead. Not that it pained her that much but somehow she missed his constant advances. She had usually turned him down, but it made her feel...wanted. Now Jaime was gone, she was not sure if she'd ever see him again. Or if he was still alive. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She was worried but she was also angry. How could he do this to her? How? How could he leave her here like this? She missed him by her side...and in her bed, too. She had tried to take different lovers but they were no good. Like Lancel. That boy was so inexperienced and shy. The others were even worse. With no man around that could give her the pleasure she needed, she had to take care of her needs herself.
But that wasn't the worst of it. She caught herself not fantasizing about Jaime, which was what she usually did. She dismissed it as thoughts that came only in the heat of the moment at first. But then the thoughts would come in the middle of the day, when she was sitting next to Joffrey at a table or discussing important matters with the Small Council. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the object of those thoughts was her son's dog, Sandor Clegane.
She was unspeakably ashamed of those thoughts. He was a rude, brutal, rough man with no manners. He was dirty and horribly disfigured and even if he had a face unmarked by that burn scar, he would be far from handsome. Yet, there was something about him that made her wonder what he was hiding under that heavy armor he never seemed to take off. After all, ugly as he was, he was tall and powerful, with the strong, sturdy body of a warrior. She lay on her bed, slipping her hand under her skirts. She closed her eyes and imagined all the things she would do with him.
She would call him to her room it the middle of the night. She would be wearing only her nightgown, silky and almost see-trough. She imagined his eyes taking in her body, trying not to show any desire and retain that unconcerned face he always made. She would order him to remove his armor. He would protest, surely, but he would obey in the end. After that she would tell him to remove his shirt and take off his boots, then his breeches and even his smallclothes. She would make him stand there in front of her, naked as the day he was born.
Then she would slowly, seductively slip her gown off her shoulders and lower and lower, until she too would be nude. She imagined him staring at her, his manhood hardening. Then she would order him to kneel before his queen. He would look up at her, eyes wide, pupils blown, anticipating her next order. And she would tell him to lick her, to pleasure her. And he would obey like the good dog he is. His hot tongue would slide between her wet folds, sending waves of bliss through her entire body. And then his lips would find her little pearl and suck and bite gently and then she would tell him to use his hands, too. And he would slide one of his big fingers inside her, then add another and he would work them, hitting the hidden spot in her and he would keep licking and sucking until she would reach her peak and tell him to stop.
Then she would make him stand up and take his hand and lead him to bed. She would make him lay on his back and stroke his chest slowly, then his arms. She would take a bottle of lavender oil and spread it all over him. And before he knew it, his wrists would be tied together with a soft silk sash and fastened to the bed so he couldn't move his hands. She would do the same to his legs, so he would now be helpless and completely at her mercy. He might have been a powerful warrior out there but in her bed he would be all hers. Under her control. He would object, of course. But she would soon shut him up by grabbing his stiff manhood in her hand and stroking it. She would rub it and caress it and he would pant and grunt until he would be on the very edge and then she would take her hand away. And he would moan in disappointment and she would scrape her nails along his thighs and his arms, making him shudder. And then she would grab a hold of him once again and wouldn't let him come again. And she would torture him like this for so long...He would buck his hips, strain, trying to free himself but she wouldn't let him. He would have to beg her to let him come, to give him the much needed release and then she would finally cave in and take him over the edge, making him groan with pleasure and spill his seed all over her hand...
She felt feel her own peak then, her muscles convulsing around her fingers. And she was panting and moaning "Oh gods, oh gods! My dog! Oh, my good dog!" When it was over, she lay there, exhausted, relaxed and deeply ashamed of her fantasies.