The Queen

Once upon a time there was a Queen.  She was satisfied in every way.  Her King was a luscious, brawny fellow, and he pleased her no end.  He wore a golden crown on his head, and his skin was bronzed by the sun.  Shiny locks of hair fell across his forehead, and he watched, watched, watched the queen with all of his lust and might.  Their impassioned romps were notorious amongst their submissive, servile servants, as their cries of pleasure could not be contained by walls or windows, and were heard in blushing detail by all the subjects in the land.

One day, the King had to leave.  Urgent business took him to another kingdom, far, far away.  He kissed his ardent, royal consort goodbye, mounted his steed, and galloped away into oblivion.  She ached for him, she burned for him, she twisted and turned in her sheets for him.  She was like a woman without water, a feverish Madonna, untouched and pure despite her desires.  Nothing could satisfy her thirst.  Her servants brought her heaping trays of fruit, sparkling wine, kittens and puppies, acrobatic jesters.  Nothing cheered her, and what began as frustration deepened into fury.  Her fire leapt and burned anyone who came near.  She became ferocious, untamed, a dangerous flame.

One evening, her servant Mary appeared holding the Queen’s nightgown.  “Here you are, your Majesty,” she offered meekly, holding out the arms of the dress.  The Queen swatted it to the floor, the soft white cotton crumpling sadly.  The fire burned in the hearth, crackling and popping as smoke stained the chimney with soot.  Outside, a black wind blew.  Trees whipped at the double-paned windows, and the sound of the gale sent everyone scurrying for cover.  Nary a subject could be seen out of doors in the kingdom, those with good sense have taken cover for the evening.  In the dim light of the Queen’s chambers however, all was cozy and warm.

Mary bends down and picks up the nightgown.  She folds it over her arm and stands, unsure.  The Queen rips off her dress, and tears off her petticoats.  “What are you just standing there for?” she demands of Mary.  “Take off my bodice!”  Mary scurries over, quickly unlacing the ribbons at the back.  As the bodice loosens and begins to slide, the Queen sighs and says, “That’s better.”  She steps out of the constricting garment, and stands in front of the fire.  Her royal body gleams in the light, set off by the lacy underthings she wears.  “Ah, Mary,” she says.  “You have no idea how good it feels to be undressed!”

She sighs and lifts her hair off her neck.  She lets it slide down between her fingers.  Mary watches, transfixed.  The dark-haired Queen is utterly lovely.  The fire that leaps within her seems to stain her skin, coloring her cheeks and her chest red, brightening her lips and her eyes.  She turns from the fire and rips off her brassiere.  “It has been so long since I felt free,” she declares.  She walks to the high, majestic bed, and climbs up onto its satin covers.  “Come here, Mary,” she says.  “Make me feel love.”

Mary’s eyes get huge, but she is rooted to the spot.  The fire burns at her back, and the Queen stretches out before her.  She watches the Queen’s dark hair spill out around her shoulders, and her arms rise over her head.  The Queen seems to be dancing on the bed as she lies on her back.  She is like a swimming angel, a naughty muse, a royal dream that Mary cannot quite conceive of.  “Get over here!” the Queen suddenly snarls.  “What are you waiting for?!”

Mary drops the bodice and takes a step forward.  If love at first (nude) sight is possible, then she is in love with the Queen.  She approaches the bed, and the Queen tosses a silk shawl at her.  “Cover yourself,” she says.  “I want to pretend you are my King.”  Mary nods wordlessly and takes the shawl.  The Queen’s small, arched feet are planted on the bed, and her knees are rounded and white.  Mary drapes the shawl across her knees, obscuring herself from the Queen’s sight.  The Queen moans as Mary does this, and throws her head to the side.  Already, she is imagining her King between her legs, her high, royal Majesty at work on her body.

Mary timidly bends down and kisses the Queen’s thighs.  Then she gets bolder and tastes her flesh.  The Queen is in love in her mind, romping through meadows with His Tantalizing Highness.  Mary gets more and more bold, allowing the Queen to believe she is the King.  She dances designs on the Queen’s body, lingering and waiting, drawing it out.  The Queen moans and thrashes, the firelight leaping across her body.  “Yes, Your Highness!” she screams.  “Yes!!”

Many hours later, when the night finally draws to a close, Mary falls asleep, exhausted.  The Queen has had her play out every fantasy one night could include, and Mary is delusional and happy, but gone.  She slips into oblivion as the sun rises, and the Queen is kind enough to cover her with a satin blanket, and order tea to be made for her when she awakes.  The young thing may only be a maid, but she’s a good maid.  There’s no telling when the King will be back.  The black-haired, royal vixen of a Queen may have to fend for herself for awhile longer.



One Response to The Queen

  1. Interesting angle to use fairy tale narrative style.

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