A Queen's Duty

The queen's gesture was small and barely noticeable, invisible to the crowded feast hall, even the king himself, but the maiden saw and rushed forward to fill Queen Tella's outstretched goblet. She handled the movement deftly, never looking to the serving girl and never twisting her torso away from the farce.

The queen set the goblet down gently and gave the king a slight tap, just enough to bring his attention to the wine. He took it without turning and started to sip.

The queen didn't need him blackout or stumbling, she just needed him tired. She had to be absolutely certain he wouldn't wander around the castle in the late hours of the night. She'd been making movements all night and the movements were small. When the king coughed between bites she held out his goblet helpfully, offering a solution. She kept it full and just in the cusp of his vision. He was too fixated on the play to notice the performance she'd been putting on.

Most days the feast hall was a place for dining and nothing more. The king and his advisers sat at the great table, overlooking the ancient, oak tables where the leaders sat. The guests often rotated, some days it was opened to the subjects, some days the king hosted allies and the rest of their party, other days he treated the men in his army to a feast, and it always was a feast. The king's staff worked tirelessly, and the kitchen was always bustling, day or night.

Today, the feast came second to the show. It took almost a week for the troupe to set up a stage at the far end of the hall, and the set was as vibrant as the queen's lavender gown. The costuming was woven as intricately as her bodice, and the troupe's voices rang as loudly as the king himself.

Laughter shot through the hall and the King's was more uproarious than any others. Spittle and crumbs of the breaded duck shot from his mouth. Queen Tella wiped at his graying beard, and held out the goblet, just to be sure he washed down his laughter.

Tella had a moment to watch the show. Everything came with a musical cue, and the pit sat alongside the stage. A pair of lutes accompanied a goatskin drum, while a Hurdy-Gurdy kept the melody. Some of the actors sang in time while others focused on dance. A few only spoke, cracking jokes, and falling as the drumbeat accentuated the laughter.

"Careful," a voice said, and there was a hand on the Queen's shoulder. "You wouldn't want him too drunk would you? As far as anyone can tell, you've yet to perform your queenly duties, and you can't delay forever. Need I remind you about his majesties first three wives?"

Tella gulped her wine to gather her nerves, then turned to face the only man she truly feared. Rane was the King's father and he wore his age like armor. His white hair had mostly fallen, only leaving behind a horseshoe. Deep scars ran across his cheeks and his beard disappeared where it met the scar tissue.

"If I hear word you flee the castle at night one more time," he said, his voice quiet, but articulate, cracking like a whip, "I'll lock your door myself. I'll tie you to the bed if I must."

Tella tried to keep her eyes forward. She'd been so focused on the wine she'd long lost the plot, and when she managed to watch the show, she focused on the actors themselves, not the character. She had to be certain she could trust them all.

Rane's hand was still on her shoulder and his grip was tightening. The King noticed his presence and turned to interject.

"We're just having fun father," the king laughed drunkenly. Rane's grip loosened, but the motion was reluctant.

"You need to keep your kingdom."

The king swatted the motion away like an annoying fly and the three looked back towards the stage. The hall well past full, with well over two thousand heads all watching the performance, save for one single face turned the opposite way, watching the King's table.

The man was Taynor, Rane's second son. He sat one table down, still surrounded by nobility, but an obvious distance from the king's own party. He knew his position, and he knew his role. Still, he watched with eyebrows raised and eyes full of envy.

Tella tried to ignore the watching face, but he'd seen everything. He watched to read lips and he never missed a trick. He noticed how much drunker the king was than the rest of the party, and the man kept on staring. The Queen felt her young heart start racing, and she forced herself to look away, back towards the show.

The crowd started to applaud and the queen joined in nervously. Her flared sleeves felt heavy and muffled as they swung against each other. Still, Taynor kept watching.

The jugglers gave way to acrobats. Tella wiped a nervous dot of sweat from her forehead and she glanced back, just to make sure Rane had left.

"Your grace," she said, more direct than she'd been all night but time was running out, "some more wine?"

He took it without looking and drank greedily. The acrobats were forming a tower and the shuffling of feet ran backstage. The troupe was preparing for the grand finale. Some in the audience started to stand, and it became a cascade, a necessity to see over the heads.

The band swelled and the gymnasts held out their legs, testing their strength. The jugglers tossed even higher, adding a tenth and eleventh ball to their circulation. The singers hands swung in a delicate balance as they reached their crescendo, as the dancers paired and swung around the stage. The fools joined last, and as the entire troupe took one final bow the king's meaty palms roared in applause.

The music fizzled and chatter started to fill the great hall.

"Your Grace," the queen said again, "we should get you to bed."

The king kept clapping, and when he was determined, he was an immovable object. A gentle tug on his sleeve wouldn't make him budge, even as the crowd began filtering from the hall.

He didn't move until his squire held out a hand, and the small king's party made their way back towards the royal chamber. The two disappeared into the room, and for the first time all night, the two were alone. Tella stepped forward gracefully, and helped the drunken man with his cloak.

His eyelids were fluttering, and he had to brace against the wall for balance. Tella stood with his robe open and waiting. He tried to speak, but he was losing the battle with sleep. "Don't you," he muttered, another quick stumble, "Need help with the dress?"

"I'm fine," she promised. She slipped his arm through the sleeve, and helped him with the pants, "I can manage the corset. Let's get you to bed."

He fell back reluctantly, but the feather mattress swallowed him whole, and his eyes sealed shut. When he spoke, his words were a last breath, "Don't you wanna..." he mouthed, "Come to bed with me?"

I've been trying, The queen thought, For months. But you've denied me every single night, and have left me with no other options-

"I don't want to keep you up," was all she would let herself say, "Good night my king. Sleep well."

It wasn't the first time Tella had seen the man drunk, and she was certain it wouldn't be the last. Still, she stood frozen until his snores turned thunderous, and his breathing came in a steady wheeze. She stood and watched with crisscrossed fingers, and a heart that raced so fast it tried to leap free from her chest. She never tugged at the corset, and never slipped her shoes from her feet. She was a statue, frozen in place from the weight of the task she had.

There came a point when she could delay no more. The king was asleep and his snores were a coo. She crossed the chamber in her evening gown, and gave the king one last glance before throwing open the wardrobe. Even as she pulled the burlap cloak over her gown, her eyes stayed fixed on him. Her heart never slowed, and her breathing came so quickly she'd started to hyperventilate.

Tella finished running her arm through the sleeves. She fixed the rolls that caught at her hip. She slipped her shoes off and padded across the stone tiles. She eyed her husband one final time, and reached for the torch.

She raised the hood mid-stride, and knelt against the corner tile. She lifted as quietly as she could, her ears laser-focused on her husband's snoring. The passages had been built more than a century ago, and to her knowledge, the only ones who knew of them was her, the king, and his father. They led between bed-chambers, and ran behind the castle's walls. They'd been built by a king who feared a siege, but they'd serve her purpose nicely.

Tella made her way towards the dungeons with careful footsteps. The deeper she went, the faster her heart thudded, and the more she sweat. Beneath her gown and cloak, the dark narrow passage was blazing.

It's more than just my secret, her frantic thoughts raced, It's everyone who's involved. They all must bear the burden our entire lives, and if we get caught-

Tella nearly ran into the the wall as it turned along the great hall. She walked with trembling fingers, outstretched as she guided her way down the castle.

What if they already told? Her mind raced, What if the gold wasn't enough? What if they got cold feet?

The queen forced herself to keep walking, And if I don't take this risk, I'll go the way of last three queens.

Somehow the passage seemed unending, but over all too quickly. The burlap hood kept catching in her eyes, and it didn't matter how often she frantically swiped it away, the fabric caught in her tangled hair.

Tella felt her way down the final passage, and watched with dread as the distant light started to draw near. The lump in her throat clawed up, giving her breathing pause.

It was the music that got her attention first. The troupe was still awake, and the night was alive with drunken music. Laughter rang between the men as mugs clicked together. The queen waited, with her hand rested on passage grate. She took a deep breath, mustered all the courage it took to open the door, and slipped behind the statue of an ancient beast.

She fixed her hood, and walked with her head down. The man she'd spoken with was where she expected, leaning against the far pillar, cracking peanuts while he stared. She crossed the dungeon briskly, aware of every eye that turned to follow her.

"You really thought that cloak would be enough to disguise you?" the man asked, "How many women do you imagine we get?"

The man took a bite from his handful, indifferent to the queen's stress. "No matter," he sighed, "Most are too drunk to remember; a party was an easy enough excuse after performing for the king."

The man still hadn't met the queen's eye. He was the same man she'd spoken with all those weeks ago, and he spoke with the same nonchalance he'd had in the tavern.

"We've got a bet going, me and some of the others in on it," he cracked another nut, "Some say he's shooting blanks, myself, I say he prefers the company of men."

The conversation wasn't doing anything to lower the queen's stampeding heart.

"I suppose it doesn't matter, as long as the jobs done," he met the queen's eyes for the first time, "You're sure you wanna go through with this?"

Tella nodded too quickly, "You saw what happened to his other wives. I'd be cast from the kingdom, exiled and ridiculed. If I can't bear the king a child-"

Tella took a deep breath, "I don't have any other choice."

"Good," the man said. He rose slowly, fixing his posture as he stared across the dungeon, "I've picked out eight men, only those that look most like the king. All similar heights, pale skin, fair hair and blue eyes-"

"Thank you," the queen offered.

The man eyed her suspiciously, still trying to gauge the queen.

"I assumed," he said slowly, "You'd want to meet them, pick a suitor for yourself."

The queen turned sheepish, "I was hoping... all."

The ringleader chuckled, "You don't mean?"

"I do," Tella was certain, "All the risks I've taken, the strings I've pulled to get tonight in motion; it's best to have all the chances I can get."

The man laughed again, "I guess," he said, "You should follow me."

The two wove through the troupe's party, and past the well-lit portion of the dungeon. They climbed a set of stairs, and turned towards a dimly lit auxiliary chamber.

"I've arranged for some furniture," the man said. He led her into the chamber, and held his torch towards lamps. A warm light spread across the room, and Tella saw the sheer number of men who watched them enter.

A pang of anxiety shot up her back, and she felt how tiny and surrounded she was compared to the men. A bead of sweat ran down her cheek, and she forced herself to take a step towards the couch.

The first to step forward was a singer, with an accent Tella couldn't quite place. "I assure you my queen, our discretion is of the utmost importance."

The others had started to break free from their chairs. A few were nursing their flagons, but most were studying the queen.

"It was an easy decision," another man said, "Enough gold to retire with, and a chance to lay with the queen."

None of the men looked quite like the king. A few shared his nose, a few others his almond eyes, but each had a collection of features that could pass for related.

"We won't rush you," the ringleader said, "You still hold the same power here you'd have at court."

The men continued to wander closer, surrounding the queen. Her eyes ran towards the couch, a regal piece with red velvet cushions, and golden ornate furnishings.

All nine men were watching the queen, waiting for an order. Her hands ran up her sleeves, nervously tearing off the cloak. The ringleader ran forward to take it, while the others admired the gown from up close.

"I never imagined the detail," a juggler mused. Their tunics were plain colors, the threads coarse. The queen's gown had spent half a year on a single loom, with a darker shade of purple woven into intricate patterns within the fabric itself.

The shortest of the group spoke, "Do you need help, my queen?"

Tella's hands were wandering between her shoulder blades, struggling to loosen the corset. She found the knot, and ran her fingers towards the golden broach across her chest. A pair of hands caught her shoulders and helped the sleeves from her arms.

Some of the men were already shirtless, their abs flickering in torchlight.

Tella lowered her gown nervously, and every eye watched the queen. Her hands fell instinctively across her small breasts. Her chaotic heart turned her cheeks flush, and every muscle in her body wanted to run from embarrassment.

The bare chests became unclasped belts, as each of the eight started pressing closer to the queen. Tella shimmied the gown with her hips, her fingers digging into her chest.

The first man stepped forward. He was half a head taller than the king, but his features were near identical. He'd stripped down to nothing, and met the queen's nervous eyes, "May I?"

Tella forced herself to look up. Most of the others had finished undressing, and half had already started running their hand between their legs.

The queen's hair was still proper, a complicated weave held in place by hours of work and dozens of pins stuck between her locks. Now that the group had undressed, her hair was the last sign of royalty, and the queen was utterly surrounded.

The tall man stepped forward. He rested his hands on Tella's waist, and helped the gown slip past her hips. The corset fell between her legs, untied and sprawling, and she forced her shaky hand away from her breast.

"If I can ease things, even a little," the tall man breathed, "You're absolutely gorgeous my queen."

His hands were crawling back up her waist, and caught around her ribcage. He helped the queen take a gentle step back, and she fell against the couch. The men took wide, waddling steps towards her, working their fingers and breathing life into their erections.

Tella's legs were shaking, but the eagerness was starting to rise. She spread her knees and locked eyes with the tall man. Her heart was still thundering along, and she couldn't deny the anticipation.

The tall man took another step forward, stroking his cock as he waddled.

"Are you sure you're ready, my queen?"

Tella couldn't manage words, but her head bobbed up and down, desperate.

She might have expected dread. She imagined the same overwhelming guilt that gripped her back in the king's suite, that almost tethered her to his side. She'd spent so long worrying about this encounter, the pressure to sire an heir, that she never let herself truly imagine pleasure. In her time with the king, she'd forgotten a man was supposed to desire her, see her as more than just a kingly obligation, but to cherish her.

The tall man entered slowly, and his hips started to work. He bent forth, his lips finding her naval, and kissing their way up her chest. He thrusted slowly and steadily, not rushing her, his eyes always flitting to the queen's to make sure she was ok.

The other men were starting to get impatient. Two of them were leaning against the couch, stroking as they arched their waist forward. Tella's head rolled side to side taking in the men. She reached out, grabbing each cock, and drawing the men closer towards her. Her hand went lazy, slowly stroking the man, while sher nervously put her lips around the head. Her tongue worked, rolling back and forth, working the same rhythm the tall man kept.

A small line was starting to form, eager heads looking around the bodies to see the queen. She felt a hand on her breast, squeezing and jiggling. A man reached through the bodies, one hand massaging her clit while the other worked his penis.

The tall man's breathing was starting to quicken, his eyes focused with concentration. "Are you certain my queen?" he asked, his voice quivering.

She spoke around the cock, "Give me an heir."

The tall man couldn't hold back any longer, and warm seed exploded, dribbling down her thigh. She barely had time to curl her toes before the next man stepped forward, the sensation suddenly different.

She felt a hot sensation, the cum starting to froth as the man started to thrust. The second man was shorter, but his girth was as big around as her forearm. The queen's eyes went wide, gasping in time with his tempo. She started to gag on the cock in her mouth, her spit and drool falling down her chest.

"You better not cum," the ringleader warned, "We're all here for a reason."

The man pulled back suddenly, squeezing the head of his penis with a deathgrip. He knocked into the man inside her and pushed him back, "Let me go."

The man barely made it. He managed a single thrust before she was filled with another warm cumshot. She turned to her right hand, and slobbered over the penis. Another man stepped towards the couch, replacing the man she'd been blowing. Her hand shot out, blinding feeling it's way down the man's stomach, tracing his abs and finding his penis.

She wasn't sure who entered her. It might have been the same guy, maybe another. All her focus had shifted to the blowjob, her eyes working their way up his glistening chest, her tongue working like a snake charmer.

Apparently, the queen realized, It didn't matter who it was. The group had got impatient, and two men had gathered between her thighs. They entered her in opposite time, one man going in while the other came out, both their shafts covered in frothy cum.

She trusted her blowjob to her mouth alone, and shot her hand between her legs. She felt her way between the cocks, the pair a slippery, sweaty mess, before settling her finger on her clit, working it between her fingers.

Her left hand stroked lazily. She was gasping too frequently, her mind short circuiting from pleasure. It was a miracle she managed to keep her fingers curled, let alone the lazy stroke back and forth on the man's penis.