The Queen's Tale

by Grace D'Otare

  “My willingness to serve, of course.” His face was flushed, his breathing obvious. He looked like someone ill with fever.

  “Are you certain you’re quite well?”

  “Not…quite.” He took a step toward her.

  “There does seem to be an excessive amount of swelling.” She kept the words formal, polite, as if she were commenting on a horse to one of the groomsmen, while she moved to the far edge of the carpet. The old king’s weapon had never achieved quite the same amount of upright vigor, as far as she could recall. “Does it pain you much?”

  “‘It?’” he smirked. “Is that anyway for a grown—queen—to talk? Understanding begins with words, Your Majesty. That is not an ‘it.’” His voice dropped, husky and dark. “That is my cock, also sometimes dick, or willie, roger, john thomas—”

  “Yes, yes. We’ve met—Richard, William, et cetera.” She waved a hand, stuttering. “Does he, I mean, your—”

  “Cock?” he inserted carefully.

  “—hurt?”

  “You’ve no idea.” He took another purposeful step forward.

  What next? Philomena scrambled behind a chair. “Stop!” She held up a firm hand. She needed to regain control. “Wait. Don’t move.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Dante stalked forward.

  “Guard!” she called out, instinctively.

  The door swung open almost instantly. Joseph and Thomas appeared a second later, swords drawn.

  “Get out, you idiots,” Dante said. “We’re fine.”

  “Restrain him,” Philomena ordered. She pointed to Dante’s shocked face.

  Joseph glanced back and forth between them, seemed to struggle with a grin and then turned to his partner. “You heard your queen. Rope or chains, ma’am? Or you want us to each take an arm and let you have at him? He can be a right pain in the arse sometimes. I don’t wonder you’ve lost patience already.”

  “Joseph,” Dante warned.

  “No, thank you,” Philomena stuttered. “Use whatever you think best.”

  “Queen Philomena,” Dante interrupted, “You don’t want to do this.”

  Everyone in the room felt the threat. Joseph broke the tension with a booming laugh.

  “Well, she might not, but I know I do. Story to tell the grandkids, you know.” He winked at Philomena. “I’ve just the thing, your ladyship.” He reached behind the flap of his great coat and pulled out a pair of shiny silver bracelets, linked by short length of chain. “Hands out, Captain. Are you going to snap to or are we going to have to tell the lord chamberlain that he should send another man for this job?”

  “Philomena,” Dante said.

  Embarrassed to the core, she fell back on old habits. “I did not give you permission to use my name.”

  “We’d better gag him for you too,” Joseph suggested. “It’s his mouth that always gets him into trouble.”

  Philomena touched her lips, thinking of the kisses Dante’s mouth had demonstrated. When she realized he was watching, her face began to burn.

  Joseph took advantage of the distraction and locked one side of the wrist manacles in place while quick-stepping the man into a headlock.

  “That’s my boy!” he laughed, as Dante swung his head back and narrowly missed slamming the bridge of Joseph’s nose. “Grab his other hand, Thomas! If you’re not too busy just standing there?”

  Thomas jumped into the fray.

  “Behind the back is better—oomph—ow! Blasted—never mind. That’ll do.”

  The handcuffs were snapped into place. Grunts, fleshy smacks and thudding violence had Philomena cringing. A length of sturdy rope appeared from inside one of Joseph’s bottomless jacket pockets.

  “Rope his hands up. No! Top of the bed frame. Watch his knees,” Joseph grumbled. “Little bugger’s faster than he used to be.”

  “Perhaps we should reconsider—” Philomena started.

  “Not at all! Only another—oof!—moment, your Magesty. We’ll be out of your way.”

  “Don’t hurt—”

  “Nonsense. Just a bit of roughhouse.”

  Joseph and Thomas both stepped back, slightly out of breath. “There you are.”

  Dante’s arms were loosely suspended over his head, his manacled wrists roped to the top rail of her bed. The frame was ancient mahogany; the canopy pole thicker than Philomena’s arm. They all watched as Dante wrapped his hands around the rope and swung his weight against it.

  The rail held.

  “When I get out of here—” Dante lunged toward Joseph “—you’d better hope—”

  “The pubs are still open?” Joseph winked at Philomena. “No worries. We’ll all still be celebrating the queen’s special day. Won’t we?” He tipped his head toward the exit, and wrapped an arm around Thomas’ shoulder to lead him out. As he closed the bedroom door, he bowed deeply.

  “I don’t like this,” Dante began immediately.

  “Nevertheless—”

  “Untie me.”

  “I think not.”

  “You can’t do this to me!”

  Philomena blinked.

  She was the queen. Of course she could. Point of fact, she could do much worse, if she were that sort.

  “You never answered my question,” she realized. “Did you?”

  “Question?” he snapped in frustration. “What question?”

  “Tonight, it’s queen’s rules.” She walked to the door and picked up the key that Joseph had left on the small table. “That is the question you must ask yourself, sir. If you can not accept that, I will release you. And you will leave this chamber and never return. Answer me now, Captain Dante. Queen’s rules. Do you accept?”

  He hesitated. His eyes narrowed. Philomena was certain she heard his breath hiss as he exhaled. But he answered clearly.

  “I do.”

  A long sigh of relief slipped out. She felt lighter. The queen gave way to the girl inside. She didn’t resist the sudden need to smile.

  This beautiful man was hers to play with, feast on, enjoy for the entire night.

  All of him was pleasing to her, from the cut and curve of the arching muscles across his shoulders, to the shadowed hollow at the center of his chest, down to his navel, and even there, in the deep vee of his thighs. She squeaked with her next sigh.

  “Do your worst, Majesty. Anything you like.”

  “My worst?” she repeated.

  “As you can see, I’m helpless to resist.” His words pleaded weakness, but his stance shifted as if he were readying for a fight.

  “I would like—” Philomena cleared her throat “—to stand closer. And to kiss you. Again.”

  He didn’t answer at first. His arms flexed, pulling against the rope and relaxing. “Come then.”

  She took one step. Another. Watching him carefully. She’d seen how he’d used his legs when he was fighting the other men.

  “A little closer, Your Highness.” He nodded toward the small padded footstool near her chaise. “Bring that—if you like.”

  Arms raised and tied, he could not bend to meet her kiss. The stool’s height lifted her to meet him eye to eye, lip to lip.

  The heat of his skin went right through her shift, with a shocking stillness.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Now…I touch you,” Philomena replied before gently placing her hands low on his waist. She flexed her fingertips testing the muscle over hipbone. Everything in her that had been stiff and dry with nerves suddenly softened, dripping with desire.

  “And now, I will kiss—”

  “We will kiss,” he contradicted her softly.

  She brought her mouth to his and tried to recreate the moment before she’d panicked, that rich swirl of lust and play and wonder and…

  The chains clinked as he moved to reach for her.

  “Remove the rope at least, my lady. Please. I only want to touch you.”

  When he spoke, Philomena felt him strain to remain still, forced to wait for her. Her heart beat faster.r />
  “Very prettily said, but no. I think…not.”

  Philomena skimmed her fingers down his chest. Young man’s skin…so different from the old king. Dante resembled the marble statues in the castle loggia, expect for the fine, pale hair that softened the curves of muscle.

  “You’re blushing.”

  “Am I?” She continued touching him, one fingertip, then another, curving down and around, watching his skin react to her touch. A perfume seemed to rise off his skin, a scent unlike anything she’d known. Spicy yet delicate. Her mouth watered, inspired by an unfamiliar appetite. “Have you seen the statue in the loggia, the one titled ‘Hero’?”

  Dante did not answer. His eyes had drifted shut; his weight thrust forward. Even his bare toes arched against the floor, his partially nude body strung into one long line of tension.

  Philomena’s fingers meandered down past his navel to the buckle of his leather belt.

  “It’s a lovely work of art,” she chattered away, distracting herself from the scandalous task of loosening his belt, then unbuttoning the top of his trousers. “Confidentially, the Lord Chamberlain has caught me observing that particular statue more than once.”

  “I’ve seen it. A statue to celebrate the human form, as I recall,” he sounded very calm for a man whose body was a bowstring of tension.

  Releasing the final button, his pants dropped with a thud. He’d certainly dressed for the occasion—he wore absolutely nothing under his uniform. Philomena celebrated his form with a gasp of appreciation.

  “Nude,” he went on gruffly and jerked against the rope. “Free of all restraints.”

  “Free of clothing alone, in your case,” she teased. “You bare a—I mean, you resemble the statue,” she stammered. “Rather disconcerting, to think how well the Lord Chamberlain knows me. The man’s old enough to be my grandpapa.” At hearing herself babble, her voice crept higher. “Perhaps you’ve not had the experience of being so continually, thoroughly observed…how very alarming it can be.”

  “Alarming?” Dante’s voice, by contrast, seemed even deeper. He shifted his legs, stepping free of his pants with obvious relief. His wider stance hollowed the muscle from buttock to thigh that she’d admired earlier. “Do you find it alarming?”

  “What?” She tried to focus on the conversation. “Well, when it’s the Lord Chamberlain and my privates—” she choked on the word “—my private thoughts.”

  “Tell me more,” the handsome stranger tied before her whispered. “Tell me your private thoughts, Philomena.” He jerked his arms downward, reaching for her. The silver cuffs jangled against the rope.

  The sound startled her. She stepped back, down off the stool.

  A growl rolled in Dante’s throat. He tipped his head and narrowed his eyes as if assessing a target.

  “Where are you going? I’m chained. Helpless. Come back, Your Highness. Touch me again.”

  “Touch you?” She concentrated on his blue eyes. “Where?”

  “Where ever you like. I can’t stop you, can I? It’s all up to you.”

  Heat whipped up her spine, flushing her face. So many tiresome things were all up to her. For once, it was wonderful to be the one deciding. She glanced down. Swollen and flushed, the tip of him was a deep royal red. She had never seen anything like it.

  “I wish to touch your…cock,” she whispered. Moving back onto her stool, she tenderly laid her hand, wrist to fingertip, against the long, hard rise of his penis, pressing as if it were a wound to soothe.

  Dante’s answer was a slice of indrawn breath.

  “Still hurts?”

  “Mmm,” he answered, closing his eyes.

  “Poor thing,” she murmured.

  He rocked his pelvis into her palm, a sound vibrating from deep inside his chest. He pushed at her so strongly, Philomena had to reach up and grip his shoulder with her other hand, steadying herself as she might with a demanding waltz partner.

  The movement brought them chest to chest. Dante strained forward, nuzzling her ear with a whispered kiss.

  Philomena began to curl her fingers one by one around his thickness. He made a handful, all of it warmer than she’d expected. She tested firmness and length with a long, slow, heart-stopping tug.

  Dante strained as far as the rope would allow to press his lips to her throat. Philomena recognized the sharp nip, immediately swallowed by the same hot pulling comfort she’d felt on her palm. She released him immediately and stumbled backward off the stool again, twisting herself in a circle of confusion, once, twice.

  His chains clanked with frustrated restraint. “Your nipples. They’re darker now…and so tight.” Dante’s voice dripped honey over her thoughts. “Do they ache? I can help with that, if you’ll come back. Come to me.”

  How did he know? Her hands twitched with the need to press and soothe her aching breasts, to bind them tightly into her corset, anything to end that burning distraction.

  Her expression seemed to amuse him. He shook his head, half-laughing. A shock of blond hair dropped across his brow. “I know what would help.” Disheveled, he was even more appealing, more approachable. “Let me suck them, Philomena. It’s good for the ache. It makes it so much—” he stretched the rope to its limit, looming over her “—worse.”

  She almost jumped. Embarrassed, she pushed hard at his chest, setting him back on his feet. “Behave, or I’ll call the guards and have you gagged.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said, assessing her with a narrow look.

  “Oh, I think I would.” Throwing her shoulders back, she asked, “But now you have me wondering, would sucking ease your ache or make it worse?”

  She’d heard of such things, hints and jokes and whispers. That men liked a woman’s mouth as much as other parts.

  His eyes glittered. He seemed to be struggling with the urge to laugh or lunge for her.

  The air prickled with possibilities. Philomena sank down onto the stool. His penis bobbed right under her nose, a thick, rosy flower. Taking him in hand, she inhaled the scent of the dewdrop at the tip. Sugar musk. Sweet spice.

  “Just a taste,” she whispered. Her tongue slipped out and ever so lightly touched the tip of him. The skin was smoother, softer than the rest of him, closer to the feel of his mouth when they had opened to each other. She licked again. Again.

  “Perhaps a little more.”

  It felt odd to open so wide; a very unladylike amount to put inside her mouth. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with all of it. She wiggled her tongue around the fullness, surprised that there was no taste, really, only smoothness, slicked by the wetness of her own saliva.

  Somewhere above her, she recognized the hurried twist and tug of his arms. There was a swish of rope falling, but she was too busy to care. The heat of his open hands suddenly hovered over her head in benediction, then dropped with a faint metallic jingle as his fingers slipped behind her neck into her hair, gripping hard.

  “Mehhnaaaa…” He exhaled the last of her name with longing.

  No one had called her Mena in years. It was a sweet name, a pet name, far too undignified for a queen. Philomena smiled, accidentally popping him free of her lips.

  He groaned and shivered in her hands.

  “You like that?” She tried it again, tightening her lips as she pressed the head of his cock in and out. His hips began to shift, almost imperceptibly, then more forcefully, the chuff of his breath marking the motion.

  The sound and motion made her giddy as she realized what he sought to mimic. He liked it; he liked it very much. One hand awkwardly cupped her head, encouraging her. Don’t stop. Don’t go. Once more…

  She released him, pressed her tongue to trace a wide path from the stiff root to the smooth tip.

  Dante’s hands dropped heavily to her shoulders. He swayed, his breath cutting the silence with short, sharp pants.

  Nuzzling the smooth muscled cradle of his pelvis, Philomena wrapped one steadying arm around his thighs. Her other hand slid up the back of his le
g to cup the weighted muscle of his bottom cheek. She inhaled deeply, holding him tight, feeling everything low inside her twist with the luscious scent and feel of this man’s skin. She could not sit still.

  “Did that make it better or worse, Dante?” she murmured.

  Her eyes were closed but she recognized the jingle-clink of his chains, right before he caught her under the arms and pulled her up in a motion so sure and sudden she could not resist.

  He opened his arms, resting the weight on her shoulders, encircling her. Startled, she gasped. Dante pulled her close, capturing the sound that might have summoned the guards in a kiss.

  Philomena tensed her neck, resisting. She jerked her bottom backward, rocking the footstool off balance. One second they were together, the next they were tipping.

  His reflexes were better trained than hers, thank heavens. Slipping free of his linked arms, Philomena plopped butt-first onto the carpet. Dante followed, his grim expression floating over her before he flipped to land with an undignified thud alongside her.

  “So help me, Mena—” He sounded winded. “When I get…”

  Philomena covered her face with her hands…and laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve given you permission to speak to me so familiarly, sir. However, under the circumstances—”

  “Under the circumstances?”

  “—I shall make an exception.” She wiped tears from her eyes. When was the last time she’d laughed so hard? Ages. Years.

  “You honor me, Your Highness.” Dante rolled onto his back, studying her painted ceiling as if it held the secrets of the night sky. His hands were cupped casually over his belly, his erection resting lightly on top of them. He turned his head and grinned. “Care to honor me again?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Philomena marveled at his aplomb. What would that be like? To be so aroused, and still calm. To enjoy the sensation for minutes at a time, even with another person watching. Her own body was creating a panic of awareness: the piercing tightness in her breasts, the slippery moisture between her legs, the throb that made it hard not to flex her private muscles and squirm…

  “What next?” She forced the whisper through her tight throat.