How I Became an Evil Queen

"She is just what we need," Quintilla whispered to Iano. "She could have bought her way out of here long ago but she felt obligated to stay with her mistress. Now I own her, and she will do as I say - so long as it's in her interest. I'll just have to make sure of that."

"Most important," she added, "she is from our supposed home, and she sounds and looks perfect for her role. Through her, I shall become Doros, Contessa of Lorgues."

Quintilla and Emilia were both of medium height, a few inches shorter than Iano, all with dark hair and eyes and olive Mediterranean complexions. Iano had the visage of a hawk, sharp and piercing - but offset by his scarring. Quintilla's oval face peered casually at everything, taking it all in. Emilia's heart-shaped face bore a constant smile, her mask against a fickle world.

The jewels the Princess had given the Count were precious but not distinctive. A discreet goldsmith in the port quickly put them in minimal but elegant settings. Quintilla would need them in order to pass as a Contessa.

They left the port on their westward trek. Emilia played a nun role also until they were a day from familiar environs and eyeballs. Then all donned simple peasant robes. Iano wore a wide-brim had to obscure his features from those they encountered.

Iano kept his rapier hidden but accessible beneath his robe. Just in case...

They moved off the main path in the middle of the second day to stop at a secluded hot spring. All soaked their aching, smelly bodies; the misty water leeched away their fatigue and sweat. An hour in the water was enough. They threw a blanket on the ground and lay together.

"I am so happy to be with you, missy and sir," Emilia said. She lay flat on her back between Quintilla and Iano, breasts pointing skyward, eyes closed. One hand reached to Quintilla's muff, the other to Ian's cock. "And now we are clean enough for... almost anything." Her fingers stroked her companions. "Any pleasure."

"Like this?" Iano asked. He scooted so his cock was at her mouth.

"And this?" Quintilla pushed Emilia's legs apart and put her face in the girl's groin.

"Just so," Emilia said, swallowing the proffered man-meat and groaning when her mistress's tongue teased her labia. Emilia sucked skillfully and handled the count's shaft and scrotum like the pro she was. Quintilla exhibited her cunt-licking skills and generously kneaded her handmaid's breasts.

Iano indeed knew many ways to pleasure women. He re-arranged their group with his head between Quintilla's thighs. Each tongued and sucked the genitalia facing them. Iano's tongue examined Quintilla's mysteries, probing, tracing, and teasing, circling her excited love-button, much as Quintilla stimulated trembling Emilia, almost driven to distraction as she bobbed on the noble's nimrod.

The girls shook with many small orgasms. Iano was in no danger of cumming soon. They could keep that up for quite a while - and they did.

"This is fun," Iano growled, pulling out of the triad, "but I want to fuck someone."

"Fuck ME," Emilia said, rolling on her back, "and come here." She pulled Quintilla onto her face.

Emilia's sturdy slender legs waved to the sky. Iano was between her thighs, fucking nicely, steadily, sucking Quintilla's breasts while Emilia's tongue pleasured her treasure. The three got into a very nice rhythm. Both girls came and came.

"Enough of this," Iano grunted, "I need two pussies. Now."

He lay on his back, his cunt-splitter a tower of strength. He pulled Quintilla to straddle his hips and Emilia to straddle his head; both faced forward. His tongue found Emilia's luscious pearl; his hands held her breasts and nipped her nipples; her thighs pressed his ears, and shook. His cock was the target of Quintilla's energetic exertions; she bounced and twisted and bounced again; his hips thrust up to meet every down-slam and corkscrew-drop.

Quintilla leaned forward to bite Emilia's neck; her hands replaced Iano's on the handmaid's breasts. Iano grasped Quintilla's boobs, then slid down to steady her hyperactive hips as her pounding increased. Emilia moaned softly, incessantly.

Quintilla cried out when Iano's upthrusts peaked and he came hotly into her; her own climax answered his, a long answer, endless-seeming hours compressed into many long seconds.

The three collapsed, gasping. Iano pulled the three together. Their tongues joined a three-way battle for... not victory, but satisfaction, completion. Togetherness.

"Back in the hot water a bit, yes?" Emilia suggested. "I think I have more muscle strains to soak away." She giggled. "And a new layer of sweat."

** THE PREPARATION

As they journeyed, Iano schooled Quintilla in the ways of nobility and especially of more intelligent noblewomen. When and how to be haughty or demure or brisk or seductive or cutting. What attitudes to display and reject. How to walk, to hold her head and shoulders, to project her boobs and sway her ass, to freeze with a glance. How to be a high-class bitch.

They stayed in village inns some nights, or rough in the forest if no inns were near. For two weeks they walked or sometimes caught rides with passing carts, paid for with a small copper coin. They reached Emilia's home, the tiny county of Lorgues.

"I left here long ago. I was so young and I looked different. Few here will recall me. Those that will are trustworthy old friends. They can help us obtain what we need."

What they needed were clothes and accessories suitable to their supposed roles: the minor Contessa, her handmaid, and her priest-protector. They also needed information of the real Contessa, she whom Quintilla would impersonate.

"She never ventures forth. She stays in her wing of the palace, playing card games, drinking watered wine, and diddling with her maids," they learned from Matilla, Emilia's oldest and best friend. "She has no interest in men, especially not the Count. Few outside the court know her at all. I have seen her twice. And you, Quintilla," she gestured, "do look rather like her." She repeated hours of gossip.

"What else can you tell us of her?" Emilia asked.

Matilla looked serious. "Why do you want to know this? Are you playing some game here? Something dangerous?"

"Nothing around here," Emilia laughed. "I'm not sure what Quintilla has planned but we'll be gone immediately. We won't bring any trouble."

Quintilla shook her smiling head silently. Matilla had to be satisfied with this.

Quintilla had only shared a misleading plan with her handmaid. They would return to her home realm as a noble entourage and worm their way into the palace. They would be housed and fed by the court, living in luxury beyond their station. At the first word of suspicion, they would decamp for another realm, another court. They would be freeloaders on royalty and nobility. It was a not-uncommon practice.

Emilia knew not to disclose any of this.

One contact provided appropriate local clothes at a reasonable price. Another provided a trio of riding horses and their tack. Another found suitable accessories: small weapons, tools, utensils, adornments - artifacts of a minor noble's life.

They rode from town looking like prosperous peasants. They stayed in those roles halfway back to their destination. They stopped at an abandoned forest cabin near an unmarked border to complete their transformations.

Emilia became the perfect handmaid dressed for travel and work. Iano became the scarred monk-chaperone with a sturdy sword strapped to his side. And Quintilla's noble garb marked her as a woman of some small importance, not to be trifled with.

They passed through the gates of the city Iano and Quintilla had fled only a few weeks before. Nobody paid them any particular attention.

** THE PRINCE, ENAMORED

Who is this lovely creature that has entered my court and my life? Oh, a Countess from a minor realm, far over the western mountains. A charming sylph with exquisite manners and a tinkling laugh, speaking with an enticing accent of far-off court affairs, intrigues, and absurdities. A beautiful mystery with a slightly bent nose.

And not many nobles visit our court. This is a rather remote, obscure kingdom.

Why is she here? She says she was but briefly married to the last Count who was overthrown and killed by his brother. She has fled with those most loyal to her: her maid and her monk. She has no means or desire to regain her county. She is an exile, a vagabond of necessity.

I am wary of that monk. He seems vaguely familiar, but I do not really recognize him. I am sure I would know those scars, that scowl, that gravelly voice.

I had the chamberlain assign them a small but brilliant suite of rooms in the palace's guest wing. With any luck, and my force of personality, I'll have divine Doros, Contessa de Lorgues in my own rooms before too long.

Why am I becoming obsessed with her? Well, she seems to like me. So many of the women here avoid me, even despise me. I approach, at my best; they make excuses, and depart. This is not how the future King should be treated! I could compel them... but then they're no more than my uncle's whores.

Doros stands near me. She listens to me, laughs with me, and sometimes touches my arm to make a point. She is by no means immodest, yet she seems truly drawn to me. I do not feel the hidden greed of a gold-digger.

But I am no fool. Plots abound. Any could be working against me. I have instructed my new bailiff Giorgio to post spies to blanket her small entourage. Where do they go? To whom do they talk? Do any sneak in or out? Do they conspire?

Thus far, they seem innocent. The handmaid is a fetching thing who seems to know her place; the spies say she only consorts with other maids and underlings. The monk accompanies Doros, armed, whenever she leaves the palace. He seemingly speaks to nobody. In the palace, he stays in his room, associating with nobody, except for his time in chapel, praying alone. Nobody approaches their suite door save the palace servants.

Doros gossips with the ladies of the court, even with my sister and mother. All seem enchanted by her. She inquires of local affairs but speaks only of her own former court, and her dreams and fantasies, and improbable, salacious tales.

I have my own salacious dreams. I can see her as worthy to be a queen. No dowery, alas, but she seems not be be extravagance. Not a high-maintenance woman. Not a treasury-draining queen.

A queen. My queen. King Rudolph III and Queen Doros. I can see banners flying over our wedding. I can hear horns blasting hosannas to our royal coupling.

I am becoming excited. I think I'll go head-fuck that kitchen wench.

** THE OPERATION

The plan of Quintilla (now Doros) proceeded smoothly. She and Iano (now Friar Garond) and Emilia (now Marya) became integral to the court. In court, Doros rarely left the side of the Crown Prince except to gossip with the ladies. Friar Garond was rarely seen and rarely missed. Marya was just another serving-girl.

Those were their public personas. In the privacy of their suite, they fucked a lot.

Rudolph took Doros aside in a bustling corridor.

"My dear Doros, I'll ask again if I can show you my chambers. I have some art you may be interested in viewing." The Prince hid his frustration.

"Oh Rudy," Doros laughed, "it would not be proper for us to go alone. Not yet. Let me call Marya to accompany us."

"Not yet? Then when would propriety be met?" Was his force of personality insufficient to seduce her?

She stroked his arm. "For wedded mates, nothing is improper."

That was enough. His mind was blown. He proposed marriage. She accepted.

Events flowed inexorably from there. The public proclamations and celebrations. The planning for the ceremony and its following fete. The exaltation of the lovely consort-in-waiting.

The wedding was stately, ponderous. The King and Queen sat near the front, beaming. The old bishop droned on for an hour before finally joining the flower- and ribbon-bedecked couple in holy matrimony.

Horns blared. Drums pounded. Cheers arose. Marsala stood in the cheering crowd, her eyes glowing.

The wedding party moved from the chapel to the palace's main hall. Wall sconces only barely competed with the brilliant candle-lit chandelier hanging in the center of the hall. A formal feast would be held later but for now, tables groaned under vast buffets of foods and drinks. An ensemble in a corner played soft, lively music.

The bailiff Giorgio's spies were good but Quintilla (now Doros) was better. Nobody had noticed her innocent chats with local goodwives - such as her stepmother Marsala. They passed a few brief words. Thus were arrangements made.

The arrangements came to fruition when the wedding ball was at its height. The ensemble played royal dance music. The Queen dragged the stumbling King into the middle of the floor, and they danced. Danced in small circles, the crowd watching and applauding. Danced into the middle of the floor. Danced directly under the massive, brilliant, candle-lit chandelier.

And then, tragedy! A creaking sound was heard, and a rustle. And the chandelier fell. Fell right atop the dancing monarchs, crushing them into splintered fragments of human flesh. Their royal raiments caught fire immediately. Their corpses burned.

Gaiety turned instantly to panic. Screams arose. The crowd fled, trampling the slow and weak underfoot.

And the pair of Quintilla the bandit princess's lackey thugs who had broken the chandelier's supports stealthily ghosted away across the great hall's roof.

Horrified Rudolph and tearful Doros stood on a podium above the confusion on the hall's floor. A phalanx of guards quickly ringed them protectively. Rudolph's bailiff Giorgio leaped into the circle.

"Highness, highness," he sobbed, "the King and Queen are dead! You are now the sovereigns! We cannot await a coronation. You must assume the throne now!"

He led the guarded royals to the throne room. The bishop had been dragged in. He was forced to perform an instant ceremony of anointment and confirmation, witnessed by those nobles and courtiers who had not fled the confusion. The Crown Prince was now King; his new consort was now Queen.

Just as she had planned.

The following days were in turmoil. Courtiers organized both a funeral and a coronation. Propriety demanded their order: mourn first, then celebrate.

The charred remains of the late monarchs were laid to rest amid pomp and dirges. A week of national mourning was proclaimed. This mainly resulted in barkeeps raising their prices. They did not drop their rates again until after the crowning fete.

The coronation of the new King and Queen was accompanied by turgid speeches and blaring horns, of course. Feasts were set out. Bread and meat were thrown to the crowds of peasantry thronging the capitol. Beer flowed in by the tens of gallons and urine poured out just as fast. A grand time was had by all.

After the festivities, a solemn moment: the new King and Queen visited the royal mausoleum to pay tribute to their predecessors. Queen Doros knelt to lay floral wreaths around the crosses at the heads of their marble tomb. King Rudolph III stood, then bent to place a royal fleur-de-lis atop their wide, white slab.

And a large chunk of marble fell from the ceiling and squished him like a bug.

Quintilla's same two lackeys snuck away again.

Another funeral. Another week of mourning. More overpriced alcohol. Princess Thalia thought it prudent to visit a neighboring country.

National mourning passed quickly. Hey, there's always another monarch! Queen Doros must remain in black for a year. No problem; she had always preferred black.

Queen Doros (formerly Quintilla) and her trusted companions Marya (formerly Emilia) and Friar Garond (formerly Iano) gathered in the royal chambers, alone but for Marsala. All were naked. The friar had fucked the ladies in various ways, and the ladies had pleasured each other, to their preferences. These were celebratory fucks. The plan had succeeded! They had the power! The kingdom was theirs.

Well, some of theirs.

The Queen deigned to pour precious wines for her naked companions. She handed a sparkling goblet to each.

"To my stepmother - Marsala, you are a true jewel of a woman!" They toasted.

"To my handmaid - Emilia, you are more a sister than a servant!" They giggled.

"To my support - Iano, all this is only possible because of you." They nodded.

She drank a good mouthful of the spicy wine. They followed suit.

Iano felt numb and dizzy a few minutes later. The scene of naked flesh and bright eyes swirled before him. He could not stay upright. He fell over.

He tried to speak. No words came out. His thoughts were scrambled.

"Yes, Iano, all because of you. But you didn't really think I'd let you live, once I attained power, did you? Always seeking to take and drain high ladies. Living by your charm and cunning. Willing to engage in any subversion. Yes, your cock was really nice. But there are more cocks around. Goodbye, Iano. Pleasant dreams."

She closed the lids on his already-frosted eyes.

Emilia also felt queasy. What...?? She fell. Her poison was slower.

The Queen clutched her naked stepmother.

"Like I said, Marsala, you will always be at my right hand. I can trust nobody else. We are family. All the rest are... others."

"And what of your family now? Of your father, and brothers and sisters?"

"Bring them into the palace. Give father and the brothers all the dancing girls they want. My half-sisters can learn the ways of the court. Nobody else will be close."

The Queen looked into a dreamy distance.

"And then, there will be men for us. Many men. All the men we could want. Sturdy guards. Athletic officers. Ass-kissing noblemen. Unseated princes coming to seek my hand. Amoral priests seeking positions. Lusty plowmen. Whomever we want."

"Save a few for me," her stepmother laughed.

"And there all those arrogant oafs to destroy. Boastful barons, rebellious lords, those bankers with their usurious rates, asshole abbots. Men with delusions of adequacy. They'll get fucked, one way or another."

The Queen dreamed of enslaving legions of studly young men for her personal pleasure. Yes, she would do much in her long reign.

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NEXT: A look into the court of Rodrigo Borgia aka Pope Alexander VI and his daughter Lucrezia.

"Oh daddy!"

Rod grinned as his fat cock slipped in and out of hs luscious daughter Lucy's cunt.

"Yeah, baby, give it up for me!"

It's good to be pope.

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Author's note: This story by Hypoxia Smurf, who successfully challenged courses on Middle Ages art, is copyright (c) 2016. Your constructive feedback is appreciated. No death threats, please. If you like this, VOTE!