Lady Lovecome's Diaries: 01

"Woman! I am your king—"

"You are a beautiful cock. Fuck me." She stamped her foot. "Now."

He rolled to his feet. His shadow loomed over her, departed, returned. He grumbled. Something like a hot lemon wedged against her slot, rested there. She pushed back against it, lodged the tip at her entrance. It didn't retreat. She eased onto it with a lascivious shock at how much she needed to stretch, and keep stretching, to accommodate him.

Once she had a grip on his hard bell, she smiled over her shoulder. "I'll tap you three times, then you can come." She took more of him in, glad she was wet and loose from her last two orgasms—he filled her so completely it forced her breath out.

The king stood to attention, neither pushing nor pulling away, and Belle understood. Let the betrayal be hers. She rocked back at him until she was stuffed to the brink and, mercifully, his hips met her bottom. They moaned together. So this was how a man was supposed to feel. She felt more worn than penetrated, stretched over him like a perfectly fitting dress. She writhed, relishing every cell of her softness gloved to every cell of his hardness. The king cursed and could stay still no longer. He gripped her hips and slid out, and for a sinking moment she thought he would leave, but he plunged back in, forcing a squeak from her. Then again, and again and she braced and each powerful thrust pumped more joy into her. His perfect dick lit her up brighter with each stroke, fizzing along her skin to her fingertips and toes, then back again to be doubled up by the next thrust.

She turned to him, grinned through tousled hair, but could hardly form a smile for panting. His face was stoic. Serious. She grunted, shuddered to a halt. He moved her hips for her, his power and control jamming hard and deep but never too deep. And even though she was too full of him, she still cried out, "Yes, yes, yes..." He pumped her lungs, her heart, to bursting and then crammed more joy in, and more and it doubled and redoubled and she yelped, thrust back greedily, a feeding frenzy, even though it was too much, too delicious, and she was tight as a drum and still more came and more and more...

She lifted onto her toes, squealed.

And burst into a billion tiny stars.

But her juggernaut king drove on, rammed her off her feet, shoved gasp after gasp from her. He tossed her from her own skin, like there was no room for her ghost now. Too much. Too good. Too—

Oblivion.

She roused bouncing, cackling, every joint slack, every muscle warm and floppy as the king rammed her up and down on his cock. His movements grew spasmodic. His hips slapped her bottom and for a delirious, dreamy blink she wanted him to come in her, but her instinct intervened. She slipped her hands from her shackles, and slipped off his cock. He carried on shoving, unable to stop. She swivelled, dropped to her knees, stuffed his slippery meat into her mouth.

He stiffened, gnashed his teeth. Placed his hands on her head.

A wickedness tickled her. She unsuckered from him. "No. Wait."

He snarled, screwed his eyes shut.

"Wait..." She said as if to a dog. While his perineum fluttered like a bird's heart, and he made strangled noises, she calmly licked her drooling juices from his balls, running a flat, cleaning tongue up his quivering rod. She sniggered, lapped under his bulb, fluttered her eyelashes. "What do you say?"

He juddered. His fists clenched, every muscle, every vein on his body flexed to bursting point. "Please. My Lady. Please."

She tipped her mouth over his end, and slapped his arse three times.

Then braced for the gorgeous flood of power.

#

The queen returned to a new kingdom. When her Rolls Royce rolled through the streets, people gathered to throw petals over her, a band played, and children sang songs.

Queen Charlotte stepped from the car and into her king's arms looking visibly shaken. The new palace staff formed a circle about them and cheered.

He explained Belle's discovery. Mme Couteau's keys revealed many secret rooms, including storerooms crammed with produce, filing cabinets crammed with orders and a safe crammed with gold. Mme Couteau and her cohort had been increasing the taxes behind their backs. If the taxes were paid, Couteau paid the monarchs what they expected and pocketed the difference. When the taxes increasingly couldn't be paid, Couteau took the villagers' produce and sold it on to the kingdom's old buyers.

By royal decree (Though the queen guessed it was more likely Belle's decree) the stockpiled produce and stolen profits were divided amongst the townspeople, who were re-united with their old buyers. The king was happy with the same royal taxes he always received, as none of Mme Couteau's profit every reached the royals anyway.

Queen Charlotte hugged Belle hard, clasped her face and covered her cheeks in kisses. The king wrapped them both in his big arms and Belle felt like the filling in a very expensive sandwich.

Their bodies gravitated toward the royal chambers. "And how have you two managed without me?" Charlotte's hand stroked the small of Belle's back, downward. "Have you enjoyed yourselves?"

Belle shrugged. "Your husband is an adequate lover, Ma'am. But I missed you. It takes a woman to know a woman."

The king smacked her left arse cheek. The queen squeezed her right.

Belle chuckled. "I think your majesties deserve a nice bath." She said this even as she led them away from the private quarters, toward the doors to palace's public balcony. "And perhaps I might be allowed to treat myself... by treating you both?"

One purr. One growl.

"After you've greeted your subjects of course."

She threw open doors to the roar of thousands.

#

You'd think that was the end of Belle's story, but it wasn't. Of course they lived happily ever after and all that, and Belle eventually left with their royal blessing to forge her own life as the head of the world's most exclusive finishing school.

But my reason for telling you this story is the following. One last thing Belle told me that got me so hot and bothered last night I had to... well, you know. Twice actually.

A year after Belle saved the kingdom, the subject of a royal heir came up. The queen, preferring women, did not want, "The king's batter beast running riot in my little froufrou." The king, who enjoyed fucking Belle a great deal, wanted to impregnate her on the queen's behalf, and often. Belle didn't want a baby at that time and always took precautions.

Yet nine months later the queen had triplets.

Belle told me how.

One morning, they were playing in the mirrored dressing room between the royal bathrooms. The room was like an inside out jewel, octagonal and mirrored on every surface, including the ceiling, except for a roof light. The only furniture was a large, teal velvet chaise set in the middle of the space. This was Belle's favourite place for sex. So much so she had a pull-chord installed, connected to bells in the king and queen's private bedchambers so she could call them to her whenever she needed them.

She'd called them that morning, in fact. And lay waiting, naked on the chaise. The royal pair arrived from their ablutions, naked and wet—and hard— and they commenced their happy dance.

As usual, Charlotte hopped onto the chaise and settled on Belle's mouth. The king sat at Belle's feet and watched his wife get licked while he stroked his wood. Belle opened her legs to let the king see her excitement grow, but wouldn't let him touch her. The Queen watched from every angle.

When Belle patted their bottoms, they swapped. Belle stayed regally reclined, but shuffled up to rest her head on the seatback as the king stood beside it to offer his manhood to her mouth. The queen watched, stroking her sparkling clit, and Belle licked and sucked her husband. Belle opened her legs to let Charlotte watch her excitement grow, but wouldn't let the queen touch her. The king watched from every angle.

The royals loved Belle's mouth, and they loved her wholesome beauty on their rude places, but they loved Belle's arousal more. Perhaps it's a fantasy of all who are served that their servants take extreme pleasure in serving them. Perhaps everyone likes to be adored, and Belle dripped with adoration. So much, one would wonder who was pleasing who.

There was the usual hysterics as they royal couple fought to get "first bite" of Belle. She stood over them, then, stroking their heads, while they knelt at her feet. One licked from the front and one from behind and Belle, by bending forward or back, could control whose mouth got most of her. She could never last long and her cackling climax always threatened to undo one of the royal couple, usually Charlotte on either her own or her husband's fingers, or she'd leap up and beg for her turn "in the tongue sandwich".

They did the king last. In that way Belle and Charlotte could lie him out first, and have their fun on his cock and face, even if Belle—whilst being licked—would sixty-nine him to pretend her mouth was Charlotte's sex, while his wife rode Belle's fingers like a cock. The conceit drove drive the royals mad. It was very touching, and a little sad, that they loved each other so much, but couldn't express it directly to each other without Belle. Not that Belle was complaining.

All yummy of course, but this one morning, Belle wanted to try something different. Instead of sucking the king's essence from him, she tapped their arses to change position again. She lay Queen Charlotte upside down on the chaise, her hips on the back rest, so she could sixty-nine the woman. Of course, the king liked the look of this very much, but even more when Belle wiggled her bottom for him to fuck her doggystyle while his wife licked them both.

They kept it going as long as they could, which wasn't very long. The king puffed calming breaths and repeatedly jammed his happy monster into Belle's happy hole. He even held back when Charlotte slurped him as he fucked, then through his wife's orgasm under Belle, and even through Belle's screaming climax on the king's cock and the queen's tongue.

Only then did Belle pat his hip, pat-pat-pat, and beckon him to her face.

He darted around the chaise to Belle's mouth and she guzzled him in. Not a moment too soon as after all his wife's licking and Belle's soft wet cunt, he was bursting. He filled her in frantic spurts, and Belle milked every drop, careful not to swallow or to spill and not letting him go until he was flaccid. But instead of carrying on until he was hard again as usual, she discarded him.

To dribble still-warm sperm into his wife's spread, wet hole.

The king and queen laughed. The queen even climaxed one more time under Belle's gooey, lapping tongue, and this stirred the king again.

So Belle sucked him again, and filled his wife again. And again.

Three times all together. Naturally.

#

So that's what got me hot and bothered this morning. Licking, and being licked by, a beautiful woman (yes, Diary I am a woman of catholic tastes) while a thickly endowed, powerful man, attended to my hole.

Sigh.

Diary, one last note. It's the middle of the night in the drawing room. Bill is snoring on the chesterfield beside me, naked. By which I mean he's naked. Though so am I. After work, I ran him a bath, and cooked him a meal (beans on toast) and led him in here to read him today's entry.

It's a long story, and he liked it a lot. Early on, when Belle first displayed herself to her queen in the bath, I acted out her position as I read. I stood opposite him and put my foot on the sofa seat beside him. We were both still clothed then. (Though remember my cheekiness beneath my dress.) Well, when the queen dropped to her knees to adore Belle's bits, so did Bill! Rather, he told me not to stop reading, and lifted my skirt.

I felt like one of his blooms being inspected and my voice wobbled. I wondered if I could read while he licked me, while I came, but he kept me waiting. He dropped my skirt, then removed his clothes.

Log, diary, he sports a log.

I don't know what's more exciting, that I aroused this man with my physicality or with my story.

While I stimulated him with my words, he unbuttoned my dress and removed it so my body stimulated him, too. I stood before the fire, naked, reading, and he kissed me from jaw to neck then shoulders and breasts and in a slow spiral, round and round me to my feet. We haven't even snogged yet. All the while he snorted or rumbled over some detail in my tale. All the while his leathery fingertips traced his kisses. All the while, Diary, I dripped for him.

Then he was at my feet, which I'd planted wide, obvs, and he glinted up at the state of me with his icy blue-diamond eyes and sexy-rough smirk. Then, at the moment Belle let the king lick her, he kissed my cunt and my legs wobbled so fiercely he picked me up and plonked me here on the Chesterfield. Diary, he opened my knees, then kissed and licked me throughout the rest of my story, complaining if I stopped, and stopping if he thought I might come.

He stayed there, teasing me up and down. He's very curious, kissing and licking and fingering me, testing what I like and where. He only let me come when I'd got right to the end. He clapped my story, then, as if calling upon all he'd learned from his experiments while I was reading, burst me on his mouth so hard I passed out. When I woke I found him lying on me, his head prickling my belly, drooling, erect.

And I've written all this extra bit and he's still asleep and still hard. Do you think it's rude I didn't return his favour?

It is, isn't it? Very rude.

Forgive me Diary, let me just...