The heavy wooden door, the only thing that’s keeping you and the King of Britain from one another, creeks open, revealing a young man with his shirt off, letting his godlike build breathe as he stands by the window shamelessly

A pair of a servant’s hands creeps its way onto your shoulders, forcing you down, into a deep curtesy as well as another pair starts to loosen your corset for easy access

Still not looking at you, the great King Arthur gestures for the servants to leave