And what a prize she was! Cordelia herself was fair and gentle but she lacked a womanly shape with her bony hips and small chest. Indeed, she was almost boyish. He thought of his buxom maid, the one who turned down his bed at night, warming it with her own body before he came for his slumber. Some nights, he would merely slap her on the backside and dismiss her to her quarters. Other nights however, he would explode in rapture within her luscious curves. The King sighed at such libidinous thoughts as he stared at the pale creature before him.

Cordelia had been a great acquisition, not for her physical beauty, but because of the opportunity for future gain with this alliance possibly allowing France to claim glorious rule over England. He knew she would be a dutiful wife. Had not her words to her father been as such? Had she not said that she would love her husband and therefore could not love her father all? Yet, she had continued to keep her eyes downcast and avoided looking at him since leaving the shores of England. She had barely spoken, barely eaten. The trip over had been rough and her pale skin had remained ghostlike throughout the voyage. During their brief betrothal, her eyes had been fixed firmly on the floor and she had not responded when he gently squeezed her hand.

Now she lay in the small antechamber beside his bedroom, the one that until now had been conveniently reserved for his maid, having successfully avoided the physical acceptance of the marriage contract for over a week. The King was not a man who lacked compassion. He sensed her loss. She was very young. The journey had been difficult. Yet, he was the King of France and he was not used to exercising patience.

The first time he had come into this room, his senses had been aroused by his maid’s sweet apple, crisp morning dew aroma. He had dragged her from her repose, her tangled hair forming a rope in his greedy hands as she cried out in shock and terror. Even in the dark, unable to see the intruder, she knew it could only be one person. She was not inexperienced, he knew that. Her fear was not of being ravished, but that she had been accused of some wrongful deed and would be left to rot in a palace dungeon. He had roughly bent her over the tiny bed; her shrill screams echoing in the small room, her trembling body so incredibly arousing as she shook against his naked flesh. "N’avez jamais peur," he had finally muttered. Never fear. And she had relaxed slightly.

She was compliant as he explored her padded flesh, marvelled at the roundness of her thighs; squeezing, pinching, bruising her all over till she flinched uncontrollably under his rough direction. He found that she was particularly sensitive on her slightly sagging breasts and his ardour rose when he felt warm teardrops landing on his arm as he clenched tiny folds near her nipples tightly between his fingers. Her breasts continued to be punished till her pathetic mews turned to pleas for mercy. He resisted touching her magic portal until his glans was stinging with desperation. Then, he had roughly pushed her head down, his hand firmly on her neck and placed his swollen member against her opening. He had pinched cruelly at her innermost flesh; the accumulative pain she had already experienced, coupled with this new onslaught coaxing hysterical sobs from deep in her throat. Finally, her wetness contaminating his thighs, he had driven himself within, luxuriating in the contractions that added further vibration to her already quivering body. When he finally pounded his royal seed into her, he collapsed on her back, totally spent and exhausted, unaware that his hand was still gripping her neck tightly.

Eventually, he stood and once again grasped her hair, pulling her around to face him. He made her kneel at his feet, using her unkempt locks to wipe their joint fluids from his loins. He had then staggered from the room, drunk with satisfaction, and slept more soundly than he had in a long time. Thus it was that the King of France had remained satisfied for many years.

The king reasoned that he would ultimately return to this arrangement with his maid. However, for now, he knew he had to claim Cordelia as his own, to ensure her loyalty and secure his alliance. It was a mixture of pride and political expediency which had led him to intrude upon his new wife, certainly not passion.

Cordelia controlled her breathing as she felt her husband’s hand upon her. Her instincts made her want to flinch and curl up in a foetal position at the far corner of the room as far away from his touch as possible. She was in a quandary as painful thoughts forced their way into her consciousness. Well aware that whatever his motivation, the king had saved her from a wretched life on the streets, Cordelia knew she must obey and fulfil the King’s needs. His lustful glimpses at the buxom maid who aired his room had not gone unnoticed. A sense of despair, not jealousy, arose in Cordelia as she calculated her inadequacy compared to this magnificent specimen of womanhood. Even this cloud of despair was preferable to the dark memories which surfaced whenever the King came near.

Cordelia had been awakened by shouts from her two sisters. There was a commotion on the castle roof and cracks in the shutters revealed a sizeable army threatening the keep. The three sisters had huddled together in a corner, silent and bewildered by this unusual event. The door to their bedroom was always heavily barred at night, as per their father’s orders. Now however, the lock was buckling under a considerable onslaught. Goneril and Regan laughed with relief when the door finally opened to reveal two of their father’s own guards. The men, stared at them with a look in their eyes that was totally unfamiliar to Cordelia. "Run away little girl," one of them hissed in her direction. "No, no, let the silly child watch," coaxed Regan with a throaty edge to her voice.

Cordelia was only vaguely aware of her body being pushed onto a chair. She sat paralysed with fear, only realising some minutes later, as her numbness faded, that she was firmly secured with rope. She struggled in vain, her wrists and ankles cut and bleeding as the rough twine embedded into her delicate skin. Her sisters had removed their garments and were standing against the wall their arms outstretched, legs slightly apart. One of the guards went to a section of the wall and removed a brick. Inside he placed a green vial, which Cordelia instantly recognised. Late at night, when they thought she was asleep, her sisters would surreptitiously drink from this vessel before collapsing in fits of giggles. Cordelia had always wondered where they obtained such potent liquid. Now she knew.

She opened her mouth and screamed, the pitiful protest escaping from her dry throat immediately absorbed by the considerable noise outside. She could only close her eyes as the guards slid their coverings to below their thighs and approached her sisters. "You watch now little sister," threatened Goneril, or we’ll have to make you participate. Horror registered on sweet Cordelia’s face as she opened her eyes to be confronted by the sight of two erect organs either side of her. She had never seen a naked man, was only vaguely aware of bodily functions, and the vision was completely terrifying. Her lip trembled, but the guards soon returned their attentions to her sisters. They stood before Goneril and Regan, their grasping hands travelling over her sisters’ bodies. Then, almost in unison, her sisters were hefted off their feet and pushed hard against the wall, their legs wrapped around the waists of the guards.

Cordelia could barely comprehend as she watched the pointed chunks of flesh propel in and out of her sisters, the moans of the guards becoming ever more primal. She looked at the faces of her sisters. Regan’s head was being bashed mercilessly against the wall with each upthrust. At one stage Cordelia heard her plead for the guard to put his hand behind her but no such kindness ensued. Goneril had tears streaming from her eyes, a look of betrayal crossing her face. It was only later, as Cordelia watched the two girls comforting each other and inspecting their damaged bodies that she realised the guard had penetrated Goneril’s much smaller entrance. The guards had dispensed their sticky offerings deep into the girls just as the sounds outside abated. Without ceremony, the girls had been dropped to the floor as the guards hurriedly rearranged themselves and exited. Despite this, Cordelia became aware that her sisters continued to suffer this humiliation, so powerful was their thirst for the contents of the green vial. She knew that marriage was inevitable but had always feared the pain and violence she now knew would accompany her coupling with a man.

Cordelia whimpered slightly at the memory, forgetting the presence of her husband. Bolder and more determined now, he stroked her hair in long, fluid movements. He felt a faint increase in his pulse as he registered its smooth, silky texture. It was certainly far more sensual to the touch than the unbrushed tresses of his maid. A surprising tingle ran through his body and he felt a familiar stirring in his groin. He continued to watch Cordelia as her face expressed a variety of emotions followed by almost inaudible cry. He sat down on the narrow bunk beside her, the torch still held in one hand and leant over to press his lips against hers.

Cordelia stirred, opened her eyes and pulled away from his casual grasp. With determination, as though she had suddenly reached a decision, she climbed from the bunk and moved over to the wall. Once there, she shed her clothes and assumed position, her legs slightly apart, her arms high. The King watched this spectacle with bemusement. Cordelia looked like a frightened skeleton with her slim body thus exposed. "So be it," he thought. "She has finally gained her sense of duty. I will make sure this is over quickly." It was only when he reached Cordelia that he saw the clear stream of fluid which flowed from between her legs making a puddle on the floor. He took her icy hands in his own and held them for some time, unsure what to say, subconsciously rubbing them in his large palms to restore some warmth. Cordelia leaned forward, her beautiful hair covering her face, obviously ashamed.

The King was nonplussed. He knew that Cordelia came from a raucous household. There was a lack of discipline within King Lear’s army, he had noted. His wary eye had been convinced that Cordelia was indeed not pregnant, for a challenge to the paternity of his heir was unthinkable, however, he had not seriously entertained the thought of her virginity being intact. Her reactions, plus the fact that her urine was transparent confirmed this fact. The realisation elevated him to an unprecedented state of arousal. He placed his hand firmly over her mons, only to be greeted by a whimper from Cordelia. His thumb quickly sought to explore her inner hollow, but encountered determined resistance from her tightly contracting muscles. Even the application of considerable pressure failed to ease the passage. Overcome with a sense of fierce protectiveness, the King lifted Cordelia’s clammy, shivering body with his free arm and strode purposefully along the small corridor to his own room. The room was magnificent, bedecked with glittering gifts from far away lands, its centrepiece being a large wooden bed. It was here, amidst the satin sheets and comforters, that the king carefully placed the naked Cordelia. He went to one corner of the room, put the torch in a holder and rang the bell for his servant. A hurried conversation at the door led to the King taking possession of a few items several minutes later. A bowl of warm water, a jug of icy cold water and a small cup were placed beside the bed.

Using the softest of cloths and the most delicate of touches, he washed Cordelia’s face, patting her forehead, muttering soothing, almost fatherly phrases, till he saw her fraught nerves begin to mend. He brought the cloth lower, replenishing it in the bowl every now and then, washing her neck, her shoulders, her arms. He sat her up, his strong arms encircling her shoulders and dripped small rivulets of water onto her breasts. They ran across and between her small, but as the King now noted, very firm and tender mounds, causing the nipples to become enticingly erect. The King moved one hand so that it explored the modest swelling, watching the puzzlement on Cordelia’s face as she experienced a multitude of sensations. "How do you feel?" he asked quietly. "M-m-my Lord?" she stammered. There was a long pause. "I’m confused My Lord," she finally blurted out. Then, slowly and tearfully, whilst the King continued to bathe her stomach, her legs, her feet with the warm water, Cordelia told her husband of how she knew lovemaking should be with all its cruelty. She also told him that she knew it must be so or they would be cursed not to have children. The King merely shook his head in bewilderment, Cordelia’s predicament confirming his belief that the English were quite mad.

The King looked at his eighteen year old bride, pure in thought and spirit, and he felt suddenly old, weary. He knew that he had been no more considerate of his maid than Lear’s guards had been to her sisters. He felt more like Cordelia’s father than a husband and the incestuous nature of this lust sent him into an unparalleled frenzy of desire. He saw an opportunity to redeem his past atrocities, hoping that a little of Cordelia’s untouched innocence would become a part of him. "My wife, ma cherie," he said finally, "I would never treat you like that. Please trust me that I may indeed have to make you suffer pain, but any agony you endure will cause an equal wound in my heart." Cordelia could only nod and wish she had words to thank this man for his unexpected kindness. Instead, she silently vowed that she would serve him dutifully in every way. The King’s lips met hers and this time there was a pliability and acceptance which encouraged the King to explore further; to challenge her tongue to a duel, to drill her breasts firmly with his hands, to march his wife’s hand down his body till it touched against his swollen flesh through the cloth. Finally, with a deep moan, when his self control was in danger of being defeated by his desire, he stood and undressed.

Cordelia’s eyes widened as they comprehended the sight he presented. Up close, Cordelia found the seven inch, pulsating appendage once again reminded her of her sisters’ violation. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to touch it. Involuntarily, the King shuddered and a frightened Cordelia pulled it away as though she had been stung. "Please, please, touch it," the King begged in a hoarse whisper. Cordelia was moved to realise that this was a way she could repay this man for all he had done. Her tiny hand encircled his hardness as she hesitantly explored, gradually gaining confidence as the King once again began to shudder with delight. Indeed, Cordelia’s movements were awkward, jerky even, unlike the expert ministrations of his maid, but the incredible smoothness of the Cordelia’s palm, coupled with the faint flush of embarrassment that rose in her cheeks, brought him to the edge. He knew there would be many more nights for her technique to be improved.

As he felt the first drops of pre-cum spurt forth, the King removed Cordelia’s hand and gently pushed her back down on the bed. Her husband pulled Cordelia to one side and kneeling on the floor, he plied her legs apart. Again, her anxiety, her inexperience, resulted in the tight involuntary contraction of her muscles. This time however, the King remained patient and persistent, tickling her outer lips with one finger, whilst massaging her feet with his other hand. Gradually, inch by inch, his index finger managed to enter her sacred chapel, till he could feel the throbbing of her outer glands. He tickled, gently circled, then more persistently pressed on her sensual nerves. She moaned slightly, closed her eyes, but remained tense. Her pelvis was so small, the King knew she would have to be stretched considerably in order to accept his organ. He saw her wince, as he slid a second finger into her entrance and gradually, ever so slowly separated them till her taut skin reached the limits of its elasticity. His soft words continued, as his first finger went in deeper, followed by the second, continuing the careful stretching process. The King did this, until his fingers were impeded by a hard membrane which refused to respond to pressure.

The King was desperate to feel Cordelia’s girlhood tear beneath his piercing flesh, but he knew his lust was too powerful and he could not trust himself not to ravage her minuscule opening. Instead, he strode purposely to one of the many trunks in the room and returned with a shiny, polished, wooden phallus. He held it for Cordelia to see, and she nodded in compliant agreement, when she saw that it was considerably smaller than the King’s own instrument. He placed his hands behind her head, lifted her to a half sitting position, and held the jug of water to her lips. Cordelia sipped gratefully, unaware till this moment how dry her mouth had felt. She watched as her husband dipped the phallus into the cup filled with lard and placed the wooden tip against her entrance, pulling her lips as wide as he could with his fingers. The object slid easily to the spot where his fingers had been, stopping abruptly at her virgin barrier. With a sharp intake of breath from both of them, the King pressed determinedly downwards, pulling the object back a little, then a little further, gaining more and more momentum, till with one final plunge, he felt it slip and become embedded deep in her tiny chasm. She screamed, from pain or fright, he knew not which, but he left the phallus buried in her as he put his face against hers and comforted her, caressed her, held her. He took the cloth and once again washed her face, then removed the fullness from inside her. She gasped as she saw the red liquid coating it and murmured, "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have caused you so much trouble, My Lord." "Shhh, little one," he responded as he bathed Cordelia’s most private flesh till all evidence of the ordeal was gone.

Again the King held the jug against her lips and again Cordelia gratefully accepted this kindness. She watched in awe, as the King now coated his own pulsating manhood with the lard and crawled between her legs. His lips and tongue danced little circles on her neck and breasts till she felt a faint heat within, a spark which seemed to dissipate all fear, and the King slowly made his pilgrimage into her special realm. He felt her soft, moist, folded walls moulding to his flesh and his teeth buried in her neck. He felt her hot, sharp little intakes of breath as he began to move and one hand clasped her left breast tightly. He heard her whisper, "I love you," and he felt the magma in his scrotum rising to the surface.

Cordelia ran her nails across his back, desperately trying to tell the story of her need for protection, her desire to please him, her willingness to learn. In return, between primordial cries, he tried to reassure her that she had already given him more than he could hope for. Then, in an explosion of lava, they clung together, quaking uncontrollably; tears, moans and desperate gasps for air punctuating the moment.

The King had always imagined his wife would have her own room, leaving him to his devices once he had obtained an heir. Now, the King placed Cordelia on her side and lay awake, listening to her contented breathing. He felt at peace, as though battles with armies and matters of court were far away. Tonight, tomorrow and forever, this chamber, with his dear wife Cordelia within, would be the only kingdom that really mattered.

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