How I Became an Evil Queen

The surprisingly clean cellar was lit dimly by thin horizontal glazed windows along the ceiling. Crates and barrels loomed in the gloom. Piles of wooden beams and metal ingots were neatly arrayed. Marsala led Iano to one stack of crates against a wall. She reached behind the top crate and did something with her hand. The whole stack rolled away from the wall, hinged on one side, silently riding oiled casters. A doorway was revealed.

"In here, sir," she said, taking his hand. She pulled the clever door shut after her.

Thin cracks in the upper wall allowed a trace of light showing a tiny cell with a blanket-covered pallet on the floor, a clay water jug, cup, and bowl, a waste bucket, and a low stool topped with folded fluffy fabric - toweling, no doubt. His hand still in hers, she pulled him toward the bedding.

"You tasted me briefly last night, sir. Your mouth felt good upon my breast. Your tongue tantalized me. Would you like to taste me again, dear count?"

She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe a decade older than Quintilla. Her dark hair was twisted in a thick plait. She wore a simple linen robe belted by a waist sash. She pulled the robe off her shoulders, exposing her from her flat belly and 'inny' navel upwards. Her breasts were large and full, with little sag. Her fluffy aureoles were tipped with engorged blueberry nipples. She quivered.

She tugged his hand. He leaned forward and suckled, first left, then right. She moaned and pulled his head to her with both hands. He stroked her back and sides and shoulders while he worshiped those splendid orbs.

She pushed away and untied her sash. The robe fell away. She stood naked before him except her ankle-laced sandals. Her legs were slightly spread. He saw a gleam of moisture at her dark-furred opening.

Iano lifted his tunic over his head and pulled off his soft bootlings and woolen pantaloons. His long erection stood out like a fleshy beacon.

She splashed water onto a cloth and approached him.

"Sir, if I may?"

She wiped off his genitals, then added a splash and cleaned herself too. She threw the cloth aside. He pulled her to him and suckled again, nibbling and biting, one hand supporting that breast while his other squeezed the opposite nipple. She moaned louder.

He released one breast and reached between her legs. She oozed lust. His fingers traced around her vulva, stroked her labia, pressed inside her wetness, one finger, then two, then three. His thumb circled her stiff button. She groaned.

Marsala slipped from Iano and knelt on the pallet. He stepped to her, his cock in her face. She looked up, smiled, and swallowed him.

Fuck, this is what the Queen and I were doing not twelve hours ago, Iano thought. And the Princess, at this time yesterday. And look where that got me!

Her talented lips and tongue brought his scintillating sword to vein-popping arousal. She pulled away and changed position, crouching on the pallet, her head on her crossed arms, her butt high in the air. She looked over her shoulder at him. Her expression was serious, and hungry.

"We may not have much time, sir. Fuck me. Fuck me hard and fast. Do not be gentle. And squeeze my teats. Hard. Now, sir. Fuck me." She stared at him.

Iano knee-walked to her fairly smooth, pleasantly plump buttocks and slapped one, then the other. Marsala gasped each time. He slapped them again, then grasped her baby-wide hips and pushed smoothly inside. He leaned closer, cupped her dangling breasts, and pinched her nubs. She gasped again.

"Like this, mistress Marsala?" he purred in her ear. He squeezed harder.

She wanted a rough fuck? She got it.

No gentle preliminaries. No slow climb to the heights of ecstasy. Only a savage animal pounding. Slap-slap-slap of thighs-on-butt became slam-slam-slam. He shoved in; she shoved back, and growled. Her breasts were excellent handholds. He twisted her nips; she squalled.

Marsala bit her forearm to muffle her stream of screams as he slammed her to repeated orgasms. She drew her own blood and almost passed out when his final massive lunge loosed his noble spray, filling her still-fertile womb with his energetic, living seed. Perhaps she would bear Centero another child after all! Miracle!

Iano rolled off his hostess. She fell to her side. Both sweated and panted. After a minute, she scrunched against him, her head at his groin. Her dark eyes took his.

"A bit messy here, sir."

Her tongue traced his drooping, drenched dick. Her lips licked under his foreskin, slurped his wet dickhead, teased his sensitive pee-hole, then kissed his shaft.

"Thank you, sir, that was exactly what I needed. Centero just hasn't the drive for than any more. He much prefers I do all the work, bouncing on him. Thank you for fucking me silly."

"The pleasure was all mine, mistress. Any time, any time..."

She stood, wetted the cloth again, wiped herself clean, then splashed and bent to clean the goo from Iano's groin. With another piece of cloth, she wiped the sweat from her glowing flesh. Iano stood and she toweled him dry, too. She donned her robe and tied her waist sash. Iano remained naked. She hugged him, squeezed his cock, hugged him again, and stepped away.

"I must go now, count. Stay here and stay quiet. You will not be found."

Marsala pressed a lever near the doorway's top. The crate assembly swung open. She stepped backward into the main cellar room, her eyes upon him, and pushed the door shut.

Iano stood naked for a minute, thinking, then regained his rough garb and lay back on the pallet. The night and the morning had been tiring. He slept.

** THE PRINCE, ENRAGED

I was ready to cut off heads and hands and balls!

I glared at my sister Thalia. She sat on a divan and would not meet my eyes.

"You saw what your count was doing with Mother! You have been spending a great deal of time with the count yourself, haven't you? Have you been acting the whore like Mother? Are you just another slut?"

Her silence was all the affirmation I needed.

I flung open the anteroom door and shouted into the corridor, "Signore Laurent!" My bailiff was instantly at my side. "Where is he?" I yelled. My bailiff shrugged.

"Highness..." he began. I hate when he calls me that in private. It means he has royally fucked up.

"Highness, the guards are conducting room-by-room searches throughout the city. The city gates were closed last night and have not been re-opened, so there is no way he could escape. He is trapped here! We shall find him."

"These same guards who fear entering the Thieves' Quarter?" I sneered. "These guards who can't tell their dicks from carrots? These guards will find the maggot?"

Danilio cringed. Behind him, Thalia cringed. Fuck, what am I surrounded by?

"Every house. Every room. Every cellar. In every wagon, under every bed. Under the king's bed! Search every mouse-hole in the city! Find him! By tonight! If you want to keep your balls, you will bring him to me before the first star is visible. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Highness. It will be done. He will be found." Danilo scurried away.

"Rudy, Rudy," my sluttish sister whined behind me.

I whirled and shouted, "What?"

She said nothing more. She only cried. What a weak woman!

Somebody's balls would be chopped tonight.

** THE RESEARCH

"If he had any balls, he wouldn't need to cut off other men's."

Quintilla heard the Crown Prince's bailiff muttering as he passed. She went unnoticed behind a flouncy curtain in the palace hallway.

Quintilla had dressed in her courtly finest and strolled the palace. She asked innocent questions, overheard too-loud gossip and barked commands, saw the broken-anthill scuffle of activity among troops and their officers. So, she thought, self-proclaimed 'count' Iano at least was not lying about his danger.

She saw the Crown Prince himself in a rage, his face bright red, his fat jowls quivering obscenely as he ranted. Maybe the count's story is true. Orders and curses referred to his name and title. She had stopped at her hideaway; his pouch indeed contained precious jewels.

Ladies in court chattered the latest rumors: a Queen and Princess, disgraced; that handsome Savoyard count, targeted; senior guards officers, terrified; the Crown Prince, apoplectic; the King, unawares; and so much sex!

Quintilla learned what she needed at the palace. The search, as intensive as the sloppy city guards could muster, moved through the city. They would likely not reach her neighborhood for at least an hour. She had time for preparations.

She changed from her 'noble' garb back at her hideaway, then slipped through the Thieves' Quarter and left a sign for her lackeys, a signal to lay low for now; the city was much too hot for more banditry. She would only face her team when she was masked. Now, barefaced, she scratched chalk on a wall that any passerby could see but only her crew would understand. They would hopefully notice it, and survive.

She gathered other information too, information that would be valuable later.

** THE PLAN

Quintilla made her way home. Marsala told her that Iano remained below.

The cell door opened. Iano snored. The door closed. Quintilla shook him awake. He jumped up, startled. He had dreamt of being devoured by spiders.

"Shhh," Quintilla cautioned, "the searchers will be here soon, but we are safe."

She sat on the pallet. He sat beside her. She took his hand and spoke softly.

"I guess you weren't lying about last night. The city is swarming. The prince is livid. The king is clueless. Your jewels are real. And I know a few other things, enough to start my plan. A plan that keeps you safely in the city and leads me to the throne."

"A plan? What...?"

"Do you speak the Provençal dialect? Can you pretend to be from the west, not from your Savoy home? You sound almost Genovese now."

He shifted his speech pattern. "Yes, of course, I have spent much time there."

"Excellent," she fluently replied in the same dialect, "then we shall have no trouble at all. We merely need to become different people. You know how to behave as a count. You will teach me to behave properly. We shall adopt secure disguises and enter the city as fine foreigners. We will be honored guests at court. I will win the Crown Prince's heart. We shall dispose of his parents and I will be queen. Then we shall dispose of Prince Rudolph the Red and I will take you as my consort. We will rule this kingdom in glory and splendor. How does that sound to you?"

Iano thought it sounded a bit mad... but maybe...

"I have two questions. How do we get out of here, and who do we become? Too many people here know me."

"Escape is the easy part. I know of tunnels under the city walls. We can leave any night. And our new identities? I shall be a Provençal countess. With a tonsure, a robe, painful sandals, and foreign speech, you will be my spiritual counselor and chaperone. Hmmm, I'll a handmaid, too. I know where to find a likely girl - at Lady Love's whorehouse down by the port."

"Painful sandals...??"

"Your walk will be different - not your noble's stride and your horseman's posture. You will move like a different person. Stoop slightly. Always speak with a strong accent and a pebble in each cheek. You'll eat more, fatten your face a little. Nobody will recognize you. Your own mother would wonder who you are."

The regular cooperage pounding up above was interrupted by a different clangor, booted footsteps stomping and echoing, and shouts.

"The searchers are here," Quintilla whispered. "We must be quiet now. Hmmm, last night, we fucked pretty quietly. Did Marsala leave anything for me? We can do it again - just to pass the time till they're done here, yes?"

And to go out with a bang if the searchers found them, she thought.

She stood and braced Iano up from the pallet. She quickly shed her clothes and tugged at his sleeve. She lay back with her legs spread while he stripped. He stood over her, watching her buoyant breasts and their pretty points; she reached to fist his cock. He was soon nicely erect. She spit in her hand and moistened her pussy.

"Get down here now," she whispered. "Easy and quiet, remember."

Iano laid between her inviting thighs. She held his cock to guide him. He pushed in, not too fast, not too slow, not too hard, not too gentle. He thrust in deep, and stayed. Supporting his weight on his elbows, his hands found her breasts and his tongue pierced her lips. She wrapped her legs around his back.

"Ohhh," they murmured together.

They moved slowly, silently. More stompings and poundings above, then clatter in the cellar beyond the secret doorway. They halted all motion, all sound, but their muffled breathing. The door rattled.

"They've been here before," she said in a barely-audible hiss. "They can't find us."

Noise in the cellar abated. Shouts and clanks faded. Stompings moved away.

"Wait," Quintilla whispered.

They remained still for another five minutes. The normal noises above resumed, the sounds of coopers pounding metal and wood.

"Now," she said, and thrust her hips up against his.

He resumed his in-out, in-out, the ancient rhythm of human life, the endless dance that drives and sustains our species. Faster, and harder, and deeper, and intensely, oh so strong, so vital, so glorious. THIS is all that is important in human life. THIS is why we live - we celebrate life by working to create new life. And to have fun.

Her groans faded in his mouth. He was almost done, she could tell. Keeping her legs wrapped, keeping him impaled in her, she rolled them both over, to their sides, then onto his back. She bent over him. Her breasts swung to his mouth. He sucked.

Her hips flashed in ecstatic exertion. Faster, and faster, until she whimpered and shook. He grunted as he flooded her with his essence. She fell on him, her breasts crushed against him, her thighs squeezing, her lungs burning.

Have mercy, Quintilla thought, he does know how to use that cock!

Good Lord, Iano thought, this girl is such a wildcat! And we're still alive!

She squeezed her vaginal muscles to hold his diminishing dick inside her for as long as possible. She was in no hurry to leave. He was not inclined to roll her away - her body was no burden atop him. Her mouth found his. Their tongues danced.

Eventually he slipped from her. She grabbed the cloth lying beside the pallet and wiped the juices from their joining. She rolled them aside. They lay together, face to face, body to body, lightly sheened with sweat.

"I must go, to gather tools and materials. It's time to start your transformation. You do agree with my plan, yes?"

The secret door swung open silently.

"What plan, dear?" Marsala asked.

The house mistress looked down at the naked lounging lovers. Neither made any attempt to cover themselves. Quintilla raised herself on one elbow. Her breasts swayed over Iano.

"Keep this quiet. Only the three of us can know, lest we be betrayed and lost. This is our greatest secret, have mercy."

"Have mercy," Iano and Marsala chanted together. The vow was taken.

"Our Count here," Quintilla said, pinching Iano's nearest nipple, "will provide my entry into the Crown Prince's court. We will change our appearance now and leave the city tonight. With our transformations, none here will recognize us. We'll return soon, me as a foreign noble, him as my priest-protector, and with a handmaiden, one of Lady Love's easy-girls. We shall have no trouble insinuating ourselves into court - the Crown Prince is always desperate for pliable women because those here are repelled by his fatness and smell. I shall show no such repulsion. He is not very bright. I shall win his heart. Yes, I will soon be wed to the Crown Prince."

Quintilla grinned evilly. "And then the changes will come."

** THE TRANSFORMATION

The transformations began in the small hidden cell.

Quintilla dressed and left for her hideaway to retrieve clothes from her costume stash, and all the jewels and coins hidden there. Marsala undressed and fucked Iano again, another hot, fast, fierce, animalistic fuck, slamming her cunt onto him, and then shaved his head, leaving a monkish tonsure.

She shaved away his other body hair, too, leaving him nearly egg-smooth. She sucked his cock to keep him stiff and steady while shaving his groin bare. That stiff cock could not go to waste; another fuck. She pulled off him after his final spew.

Iano sat on the pallet, dazed. This was her opening. She quickly slashed his arms.

"AAARRGGHH!" he shouted before her hand covered his mouth. He bit her palm, not gently. "You heathen bitch! Why did you do that?"

"Disguise," she replied calmly, whetting her blade. "The young Comte was not scarified; his women then would not recognize his arms now. Has any of them seen your naked back? Yes? Well, then," she said. Her fist thumped the side of his head.

He was laying on his belly hog-tied when he came to. His mouth was gagged. Marsala, still naked, held a small whip, longer than a riding crop. Its end was tied in nasty little barbed knots.

"Your monkish order practices mortification of the flesh. All who see you will expect self-flagellation scars. You must look the part." She licked her lips and commenced.

Marsala lashed the bound count moderately, steadily, with neither enthusiasm nor trepidation. This was merely a task to be performed. All along the back of his torso and butt and and his legs, an irregular pattern, skin sliced from his flesh in random patterns, like the map of a lost world.

She rolled him over and started on his front. Calves; thighs, groin; hips; belly; chest; and along his arms again, overlaying the slash marks.

Iano has ceased screaming into his gag some time back. Unconsciousness eased his hurts... for now. Marsala's application of a stinging wash of herbs steeped in alcohol quickly revived him, painfully. He strained fruitlessly against his restraints.

Her final touch: the razor again, faintly slashing his ruddy cheeks. Another stinging rinse. The muscles in his neck stood out like a ship's rigging as he struggled.

Marsala had cleaned and dressed before Quintilla's return. The girl looked with satisfaction at her stepmother's work.

"Yes, very nice. As long as he speaks with an accent, even the Princess would not know him. And we will eat well the next few weeks, fattening him up a bit, giving him a totally different body. Yes, he is well transformed, have mercy."

Have mercy indeed, Iano thought in a tortured stupor. Fucking mercy.

Marsala granted him some mercy with a flask of brandy to lessen his pain. Then she pinched his larynx, to permanently alter his voice. He howled again.

Quintilla's transformation was less painful. Marsala shaved away some of the hair at her temples, giving her the high-browed look of a western lady. Rubbing with abrasive leaves smoothed her face and neck skin; skillful eyebrow plucking changed her facial contour. One bit of pain: Marsala broke Quintilla's nose, then re-set it at a subtle angle. No, she did not look like the earlier Quintilla.

Iano was almost human again by nightfall. Marsala led him to the waste bucket before he could befoul himself and then cleaned him. His cock was not responsive at the time; he hurt too much. Quintilla came with their travel gear. She brought victuals for their supper and for their days on the road.

Night fell. They passed through a tunnel and were off.

And the Crown Prince's bailiff lost his balls that night.

** THE FLIGHT

They began with the monk-and-nun trick. Quintilla wore the robe of a nurturing order; she led a face-bandaged blind monk along side paths from the small realm's capitol to its nearest port. A few gold coins passed to Lady Love bought the body and services of Emilia, a young Provençal whore.