If you are offended by gay sex, incest, transexuals or group sex then you can probably avoid most of them by skipping a couple of paragraphs. If, on the other hand you like a laugh then I’d recommend giving it a miss altogether. Onward.
In a pleasant land far across the sea and long, long ago (longer even than your own grandmother can remember) there lived a studly King and his beautiful Queen.
King Studly and Queen B. reigned in happiness and a certain lascivious style. Royal balls were a regular occurrence in their kingdom and horny young princes along with fetching virgin princesses (all with valid proof that they were both virginal and aged 18 or over) vied for invitations to these grand affairs of state.
The uncouth and ragged people came to blows when seeking work at the royal palace for as everyone knew, even though they paid only minimum wage, what other job would give them the opportunity to suck off a handsome prince or shoot their seed over the royal bellies and breasts of those virgin princesses?
Naturally, in order to avoid embarrassing and unwanted bastard heirs all royalty practised oral and/or anal assiduously. Never once was a princely cock driven through the royal front gates, always and like tradesmen the princesses succumbed to lust through the back door. This also had the unfortunate effect of right Royal legitimate offspring being few and far between.
Due to this Royal proclivity, sadly, King Studly and Queen B. had not conceived a child in 16 years of marriage. Not through want of trying, just preferring the wrong holes.
One day the King, whilst screwing the scullery boy (18), became suddenly enamoured of the idea of a ‘piece of pussy’. At the very thought he began ramming harder and more fiercely into the scullery lad’s 18 year old arse than ever before, cumming with such ferocity he shot the poor lad into the cold fireplace, upsetting a pot of porridge.
Grinning broadly and wiping both the cook’s porridge and the King’s from his body the scullery boy (18) watched as King Studly cast about the kitchen for fresh minge to assuage his hunger. As luck and fate would have it, Queen B was at that very moment taking her morning constitutional around the stable master’s man meat and her daily vitamin intake from a handy palace guard.
In the kitchens the King found first, the lower pantry girl, whose lower pantry was welcoming but hardly embracing. Rosamund the chief-below-stairs girl, of some 50 years was next to receive the King’s pleasure. Her below-stairs were unkempt and in sore need of a spring clean but the King was not to be discouraged and was soon ploughing a long furrow amongst the undergrowth. Rosamund came quickly and quietly much to King Studly’s chagrin. Then he spied the newest serving wench, a tender, fresh faced, spring-titted, innocent 18 year old.
This lithe and lively girl was not only virgin but also quite naïve about what her duties in the palace would entail as she’d not been able to attend the induction course being somewhat hampered by her evil father’s intent of giving her his own induction upon her 18th birthday.
Fortunately she had escaped his incestual indoctrination and though he had managed to shave her pussy bear in preparation, this fair faced, flaxen haired beauty had had the wit to keep a heavy kitchen ladle hidden within her skirts which she wielded with the strength of virtue to render her father incapable. Seeing him lying dazed and confused the still-virginal youth, feeling great sorrow and remorse for her fallen father gave him a quick hand-shandy before fleeing to seek the lurid shelter of the Palace kitchens.
Hopping from foot to foot the King listened rather impatiently to the serving wench’s miserable tale, perking slightly at the mention of bare beaver and was greatly relieved when the poor wretch’s mother made a timely (and comely) appearance to investigate. Immediately, upon noticing the Royal boner the mother made no more ado than to lift her clouts and offer of herself that which her daughter had singularly failed to do.
“Mother!” cried Hermione (for that was her name) “Mother, why do you bare your maidenhood to the king?”
And her mother replied from her position across the kitchen chopping block “To save you daughter, from Wroyal wrath. If you had the wit for which you are renowned then you would realise that the Noblest before you seeks oblige. Besides which, it’s hardly ‘maiden’ is it?”
“Now if you want to stay a ‘serving wench’ to the King” continued her mother, “And if it please you Lord?” she said to Studly, to which he smiled benignly then continued again “kindly serve the Royal appendage to it’s waiting fur vessel” pointing to her now glistening pussy. (For servants twats were fare game for any of the Royal retinue, bastards notwithstanding)
Hermione, realising her position held more ‘duties’ than she had bargained for knelt subserviently before the Royal crotch, whereupon she swiftly disgorged the kingly appendage from its silk and satin breeks. To her surprise, Hermione found Studly to be of something less than King size, in fact (if her wicked father was anything to go by) the Royal length was rather average.
Holding the purple sceptre in two hands and switching her glance back and forth between her mother’s waiting hole and the Kingly knob, Hermione hesitated at a loss as to what exactly she was meant to be doing.
By this time the King was becoming somewhat angry at the delay and began stepping forward to claim his wenchly prerogative. Hermione, sensing the moment, turned her face to the Royal crotch and suddenly found herself with a mouth full of noble nob-end.
“Now there’s a novelty.” Cried King Studly as he began to rake his whole length between the quite stunned but suddenly willing, Hermione’s full, sensuous, rose red lips. Not once did Hermione protest nor gag at the invasion of this honourable member.
“Hermione” Wailed the hirsute mother. “His Highness wishes mott not mouth. Spit him out at once you dirty girl.” But Hermione was not to broken from her self-imposed task and swallowed voraciously of the Royal Rod and the King, enchanted by this turn of events began fucking her mouth in earnest to Hermione’s delight as she savoured the wet slap of majestic bollocks against her delicate chin. Full length (and handsome girth) did King Studly rivet her face.
“It seems your dirty daughter has a zest for throat fucking,” Said the King to Hermione’s mother.
“Yes” said her mother, brightening at this turn of Royal favour. “‘Tis a new one on me your Lordliness. I’m sure I don’t know where she learned such a thing”
“As you know” began Studly to Hermione’s mother, “It is the Royal prerogative to have the wench cum first, as is fitting, but your heavenly daughter seems not to be even approaching that blessed enjoyment and mayhap continue slurping on the Purple Staff of State until even I can respond only in manly terms.”
“Yes your Honour.” Said the mother going on to apologise profusely for her daughter’s lack of tact and social grace.
“Now now” Intoned the King, “She is simply untrained in the proper respects of our naughty society. “Come come” He beckoned and indicating the still felating Hermione “Give her surcease from this zesty oral display. Have at her and guide her home.”
Following the King’s wishes the mother knelt deftly behind her daughter and, lifting her clouts to her trim and youthful waist she reached her ageing hand to her daughter’s shaven sanctity.
Hermione (who’s speech was obviously impeded) made cry at this timely imposition but, unwilling to relinquish her first taste of manhood relinquished instead her maidenhead to her mother’s fingers.
Fearing completion too soon, the King urged Hermione’s mother “The clit, the clit old woman, on your back and have at your daughter’s clit with your tongue” and naturally with a skilled tongue at the helm, Hermione was gasping with that greatest pleasure seemingly within seconds. Washing her mother’s face with her juices and almost at once, even whilst shuddering through her second and third orgasms Hermione felt honour-bound to return that sweetest of favours. Which is how His Royal Highness left them, to seek out pastures new for his still throbbing purple.
* * *
Queen B lay sated for the moment, luxuriating in the organic fluid bath of the commons from her latest romp. Of a sudden, from all sides, internal and external she heard a faraway muted yet strident thudding noise. A deliberate noise. A quite metronomic noise. Somewhat fearful, she became fully awake and lay perfectly still, listening, feeling the noise. Incessant and drawing closer. As her Reverend Mother had taught her she drew the growing fear into herself. Absorbed it. Made it part of her. Let it dissipate. Then she remembered the words of her master “Fear is borne of ignorance. From fear comes anger. From anger comes the Dark Side.”
Her fear conquered, Queen B heard the sound for what it plainly was. Her biological clock was ticking. Relentlessly. Remorselessly. “Oh merciful Heavens.” She cried. “I am without child. The King my only true love is without issue”
At this very moment King Studly entered the straw strewn stable.
“Fear not my Queen, my Lady, my Love. Kinder from a kindred and a King are my gift to you My Princess Bride.” So saying, King Studly took his wife in blissful conjugation to that high peak of awareness and gave of himself, to himself, a child and heir. (And shortly afterwards in celebration he gave her one up the arse as well)
9 MONTHS LATER… On the Blasted Heath.
First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
Second Witch: (Whispering) you forgot the Hubble bubble toil and trouble.
First Witch: Hubble what?
Second Witch: Hubble bubble toil and trouble.
Third Witch: And the frog of newt and bat of toad. (The two witches stare with disgust at the third)
Well. (She sulks)
First Witch: Never mind all that. When’s the next meeting?
Third Witch: Thursday week.
Second Witch (searching Organiser): Thursday’s no good for me.
Third Witch (Glaring): Well Friday then?
Second Witch: What date is that?
First Witch: (squinting at screen of Palm-Pilot) Thirty first. (Pause) Day before All Saints.
Second and third Witch: (Cackling) Aaaaaahahahaaaa- What’s that?
Second Witch: That evil device.
Third Witch: Black magickal box.
Second Witch: That giveth of it’s own light.
Third Witch: With mystical Runes engraved therein.
Second Witch: Devilish, evil, powerful magic.
(The two Witches shun the first and cower)
First Witch: It’s Ok. It’s all right. Don’t be frightened. It’s Linux.
(The two Witches relax visibly)
Second Witch: Well thank Torvald for that.
Third Witch: So the 31st then. All Hallows Eventide. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
First and Second Witch: Hallowe’en. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
Third Witch: Can someone give me a lift back?
First Witch: What’s wrong with your broom?
Third Witch: Drive shaft’s knackered. And the bristles need tuning.
First Witch: (Indicates large broomstick) Jump on then. Good job I brought the S.U.B
(Exeunt on broomsticks)
(Thunder and lightning)
(Enter Glinda the Good Witch)
Glinda: Haaahahahaaaaaaaa… Oh shit. Missed them again. (Exit)
Queen B was delivered of a beautiful daughter, a daughter fit for a king. The child was born October 31 at 3.24am. Attending:
2 physicians, (plus toads, nightshade, foxglove, cow’s udder, slugs (they were out of leaches) and various, very shiny, forbidding and often piercingly sharp instruments of Pracktical Medicine)
2 old-wives (useful for tales)
6 ladies-in-waiting (they hadn’t saved enough for the operation yet, though they were taking the hormones and dressing the part)
3 French hens (clucking loudly)
1 page-boy (To turn the leaves of the physician’s books)
And every single one dressed in fancy dress (no witches though which was unusual) in preparation for the masked ball and shenanigans planned for that night.
This being a Royal birth there was no blood, no afterbirth, no complications and a very limited (by a handy ball gag) amount of cursing and swearing.
“GET HIM THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME. IF HE EVER COMES NEAR ME AGAIN WITH THAT SCHLONG I’LL CUT THE BASTARD OFF.“
Joy was unbounded; they needed the restraints for two of the ladies-in-waiting who had become involved in a fistfight over who had the most chic nether-hair-style. (Mohawk v. Chaplin) (Spot of conflict there for the story purists)
After all the brouhaha and embroglio had abated everyone agreed that Queen B was a clever girl who they knew could do it.
King Studly handed round the Cubans (who immediately began plotting his downfall) and a jolly time was about to be had by all, especially the King who was still unsure about the Ladies-in-waiting, when a flash of light, thunderous …erm, thunder and a cloud of smoke had everyone deafened, blinded and coughing so much they missed the entrance of the Witches.
FLASHBACK … The blasted heath, hours previously.
First Witch: “So, our daughter, the Queen, is about to give birth to the ultimate child of our centuries of genetic manipulation. To give us our Supreme Being, our Kwizatz Haderach.”
Second Witch: “The hour fast closes we must away to the castle.”
Third Witch: “What about; when shall we three meet again?”
First Witch: “I haven’t adjourned this meeting yet. We’re just changing the venue.”
Third Witch: “Oh. I thought we could only meet on the bloody…”
Second Witch: (interrupting) “Blasted.”
Third Witch: “Blasted, yes. I thought we could only meet on the blasted heath.”
First Witch: “And who told you that? We can meet any where we want. We can meet on the blasted heath, the bloody heath, the chuffing heath or the vast unenclosed wilderness known as Egdon Heath if we want.”
Second Witch: “Wouldn’t we be embrowned moment by moment?”
First Witch: It doesn’t bloody matter. We can meet where we like. Ok?” (She busies herself with PalmPilot)
Second and third Witch: (downcast) “Ok.”
Second Witch: (Whispers to third) “She’s always using THE voice on us.”
Third Witch: “I know. It’s not fair. When I’m Mother Superior you’ll see some changes.
Second Witch: “I know. I’m sick of these black rags as well. And these pointy hats. Why can’t we have Taffeta and crinoline and a tiara?”
First Witch: “Because we’re not bloody fairies, we’re witches.”
Third Witch: “You let Glinda wear what she wants.”
First Witch: “Glinda, as you well know, is a Good Witch (ptui), and she can dress how she pleases because she is not in our coven. RIGHT?”
Second and third Witch: “Ok.”
Second Witch: “Can I have a go on you Palm Pilot?”
First Witch: “No.”
Third Witch: “Where did you get it?”
First Witch: “Benny the filofax got it for me. That guy who works in Planet 9.”
Third Witch: “From outer space?”
First Witch: “Planet not plan. Planet 9. Look, are we going? The hour draws close and all that.”
Second Witch: “Brooms or teleport? Teleport please.”
Third Witch: “Oh I don’t like teleport. It makes me feel all wavy.”
First Witch: “Teleport yes. Gives a better entrance. Ready? (They nod) Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Exeunt in a cloud of smoke.
Enter Glinda the Good Witch (ptui)
Glinda: “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa. Shit. Again.”(Exit)
THE CASTLE… hours later, or the same time as when we left for the flashback.
The assembled: Royals and plebs alike became afeared as they saw who had arrived (without invitation) and all, save the King (because he was Royal) and his sleeping Queen cowered before them.
“My, my,” said the First Witch, “We have been busy haven’t we?” She strolled across to the mewling infant and examining her closely smiled her wicked smile, which dissipated as quickly as it appeared. “We’ve knacked up again girls. It’s ginger.”
The two remaining witches were crestfallen.
“Not even a bit of Haderach.”
“Well nevermind,” said the first Witch, “we’re here anyway, let’s enjoy the Hallowe’en party and give the kid its presents. Ooh no witch costumes?”
The throng quailed. (Not a pretty site) at the way the Witch said “presents”. Not being as skilled an actor as she thought she had pronounced it “pre-zents”, like “present arms”. She scowled. “Presents then,” pronouncing properly, “presents, presents, presents. Happy?” The crowd nodded meekly. “You two.” She called over her cohorts, “Give it your gifts.”
The second witch bestowed beautiful good looks on the child, the crowd ‘aawed’; little realising the difficulties the child would face when her beauty made her unable to be taken seriously or that no one would believe she had personality and brains to match. (She would also like football, drinking, motorbikes, engines in general, particle physics and quantum mechanics but her beauty would be her nemesis)
The third witch stepped forward and gave her gift to the babe. In future years the young woman would grow to have a magnificent pair of breasts, and an arse that could kill at 20 paces plus a waist so proportionately narrow only surgery could equal it. The crowd ‘ooohed’, little realising the back ache concomitant with such a fine pair of hooters, the never ending wolf whistles for her rear-view and the bitchy jealousy of her waist, from women of all ages. And the personality and brains to match thing as well.
The first witch, not being quite as subtle as the other two, made this gift:
“You shall rue the day that you have beauty and tits enough for any man with an arse that could stop a bus and a waist that can waste (and the personality and brains thing). A virgin you are and a virgin you will remain until your 18th birthday, (In Litland anyway) whereupon you shall crave your first cock, taste your first todger, knuzzle your first knob and this shall be your undoing. For wait you must for that first orgasm which will have built to such a crescendo after all those years that it’s ecstasy will surely stop your pretty little heart. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Everyone was vaguely puzzled at this sudden sexual departure from the long established tale and stared quite insolently at the first Witch.
“What? What? What’s the matter?” The other witches called her over and explained about the tradition of story telling. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Said the crone. “Alright, alright. Hmm hm.” She coughed. “On-your-18th-birthday-you-shall-die-by-a-prick. Ok?” The gathering heaved a sigh of relief and contentment.
The first witch stalked away to sulk, followed by her coven, and into the kitchens, where they usually ended up at any party.
As luck, and a following wind, would have it, a crash sounded in the Regal birth chamber, followed by splintered glass flying in all directions and a vision in taffeta and crinoline and a tiara tumbled to the floor.
“Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.” Cried a dishevelled Glinda. “Am I too late again?”
“No no,” cried the King. “You are most welcome and in the very essence of time.” He explained the very recent events and implored the Good Witch (ptui) to right the wrong that had been wrought. Glinda thought about this for a minute or two, leaving those present on tenterhooks for as long as she dared and to gain the most dramatic effect.
“I have it.” She announced. “This is my gift to your child. The pricking and subsequent orgasm shall not have fatal consequences but shall merely send the young woman into a deep and abiding sleep for an hundred years. When she will be awakened by a prick of a different kind.” She smiled beatifically.
“An hundred years?” Wailed the King.
“An hundred years?” Bemoaned the Queen, who had woken at the sound of breaking glass.
“What, in the first place, is the good of sleeping for an hundred years, and in the second place it’s A hundred, not an hundred. Nobody says an hundred, it’s A hundred.”