Her Royal Highness, Princess Phillipa Margaret, Duchess of Castleborough, Countess of Shrewsbury, a self-centered, spoiled child was eager for the attention it would bring her. She was always addressed as The Royal Princess to differentiate her from her three sisters, also Princesses. As the oldest child of the King, who had no sons, she was next in line for the Crown.
And attention, she would have. Royal carpenters built a special platform upon which a specially made feather mattress was placed. Three rows of seating were erected on all four sides of the raised podium. Only members of the Royal Family and the highest ranking courtiers received invitations. It was upon this stage that the Royal Princess would lose her virginity.
It was the highlight of the Kingdom's social calendar; not unlike the gladiatorial fights in ancient Rome or modern day professional wrestling. It was a spectacle, not to be missed.
Seating at the foot of the bed was the most desirable. It was reserved for the King and Queen, and the Royal Princess' younger sisters who'd have their turn in a few years. Over thirty years ago, the Queen herself was deflowered in this very place by her now husband. It was the highlight of her life.
The honor of deflowering the Royal Princess was among the highest of honors. The English King came to an agreement with the King of France, and chose his eldest son, Lucien, Le Chevalier, the Prince of Bordeaux, first in line to be King of France, to perform the ritual and marry his daughter.
It would solidify the alliance between the two countries. Two countries, which had been at war forever. The Hundred Years War ended only two decades earlier. The fact that Lucien was thirty-five years old and his daughter, twenty-one, was not a consideration in the King of England's decision.
In London, the French Royal Entourage were guests of the King and Queen. One wing of the castle were set aside for them. Le Chevalier was given his own apartment. He'd never been married, nor was he anxious to be.
And why should he be? He'd travelled throughout Europe, and he couldn't keep track of the number of kitty cats, as pussy was called back then, that he'd banged. There seemed to be an unending supply of Spanish, Dutch, Belgian, Italian and German kitty cat eager to share his bed. Most were eager to please him with their mouths, too. Some with considerable expertise.
However, his father, the King of France, insisted that he find a wife, specifically one that would produce a male heir, or else.
Or else what, you might ask? "Lucien, by decree, I will pass the line of succession to your younger brother." Shortly, thereafter the King made the alliance with the King of England.
The Royal Princess was looking forward to the deflowering ceremony, but to be honest, she'd been deflowered shortly after her eighteenth birthday.
Not deflowered in the traditional sense. Phillipa watched in awe as a mare was bred to a stallion, both with superior bloodlines. That very night, her fingers slipped underneath her sleeping gown for the first time.
At first her finger, just one, went in and out, just as the stallion had done to the mare. Within a week it was two fingers. It took her a few months to discover that one spot that had her moaning uncontrollably.
Her two matronly attendants who slept outside her bedchamber, just a few yards away, could hear her and smiled, knowingly.
No one knows where she got it from, but one day while those attendants were cleaning the Royal Princess' bedchamber they discovered what we'd call a sex toy. Phillipa called it her ‘best friend.' It was made of polished wood, and covered with sausage casing. It wasn't very long, perhaps seven inches, nor very thick.
Again, the matrons smiled knowingly as they washed the well-worn dildo, and put it back where they found it.
A year later, those same matrons discovered another of her toys, only this one was over a foot long, and as thick as their wrists. In fact, the Royal Princess' best friend had been replaced by her ‘very best friend.' These matrons were sworn to secrecy, and the ceremony went on as scheduled.
It was like a coronation. The morning of the event, Phillipa's attendants bathed her, and shaved her body hair, all of it. They assured her that it would grow back, and she'd look ‘normal,' again. It was just for the ceremony. Her ample breasts were perfumed as was her now bare kitty cat. As I said, that's what it was called in those days.
She made a grand entrance, wearing only a gown. Her attendants helped her disrobe, and the Royal Princess strolled around the raised platform as if she was on a modern modeling runway.
The spectators ooh'ed and ahh'ed at her beauty; even the women. Yes, she was beautiful, but to be fair, even members of the Royal Court whose daughters were not considered attractive by the standards of the day, received a warm welcome. Afterall, they were the day's entertainment.
Then the Royal Princess laid down on the bed, legs spread as wide as possible. It was all part of the tradition, and everyone got a good look at the Royal Kitty Cat.
Her father gasped at the sight; his daughter's kitty cat was a wide open gash. The Queen whispered, "I had no idea, Your Highness, but it will be a political disaster to cancel the ceremony. France will be insulted."
Oh, Phillipa was still a virgin; technically, in the sense that no man had penetrated her. However, her very best friend had stretched her kitty cat. "It looks like she's had a litter of children," the King noted.
"A very large litter, and just yesterday," the Queen added.
In fact, thinking about her special day, the Royal Princess spent much of the previous night and morning fucking herself with that very best friend. She wasn't nervous about the ceremony; she looked forward to having the real thing satisfy her kitty cat.
Then it was the Prince's turn. Like the Royal Princess, his attendants had bathed him, but no, they didn't shave his body hair. However, just before he entered the stage, a young female attendant, part of the French Entourage, had encouraged his Royal Cock to rise with her mouth.
The Royal Cock was something to behold. There were gasps as his robe was removed, and, like the Royal Princess, he walked around the stage. Women tightly crossed their legs and marveled at the sight.
Stopping in front of the King and Queen, turning first to his right and then to his left. His maleness stood upright, almost ten inches. "It's as long as my arm, and just as thick," said the Queen, admiringly.
"Perhaps, it's a good thing that our daughter is, how should I say it, ready for the invasion of her channel." The King replied.
Lucien moved around the stage. He posed in front of Priscilla, Countess of Beechmont and the Baroness Catherine. "That thing might hurt," said the latter.
"I'm sure, I'd get over it," the Countess smiled. Never taking her eyes off it.
Now, at the head of the bed, Le Chevalier stood in front of Gwendolyn, the Countess of Kinloch, who whispered to Lady Isabella of Northumberland, "I've had a dozen children, I'm so stretched that I barely feel anything. I'll bet the Prince would make me feel something."
"Countess, I'm sure he would. I don't think my horse is that big."
Le Chevalier was proud of himself, and although he spoke no English, knew that the women were impressed, which made his cock even harder. He moved on.
Beatrice, Countess of Asturbridge, sitting next to The Baroness of Yarmouth, "Baroness Yarmouth, I don't speak French, but doesn't chevalier mean horse or something?"
"Yes, it does. The French do have a way with words. That Royal French Cock is more befitting a horse than a man."
The Queen turned to her husband, "Your Highness, I've heard rumors that the French have a peculiar way of making love. Something us English are too refined to do."
"I've heard they make love with their faces. It sounds so uncouth."
The purpose of all of this was for the groom-to-be to demonstrate his sexual prowess, and for the bride-to-be to exhibit her willingness to produce an heir; preferably a male heir.
The Prince proved his sexual prowess by taking the Royal Princess on that marriage platform. Phillipa was coached to moan and sigh loudly when she was deflowered. "We all do it, and it'll make your betrothed feel more manly," her mother told her.
There was no need for the Duchess to put on an act. When the Prince's prodigious manhood entered her, she screamed, even after the work out her Royal Kitty Cat received all night from her very best friend.
It was customary for those in attendance to encourage, comment or criticize the participants. Le Chevalier received applause and ‘ooooooh, ooooh, oooooh' from the women present as he hammered Phillipa's Royal Kitty Cat. They moaned and sighed along with the Royal Princess. The men encouraged him, "keep giving it to her your Highness, give it to her good."
The Royal Princess enthusiastically gave herself to Le Chevalier. "She's giving that stallion the ride of his life," Countess Beatrice quipped aloud.
"It's as if she's done this before," Baroness Catherine sneered. "It would be unseemly to present oneself as a virgin when one was not."
"I assure you she was a virgin."
"That kitty cat says differently."
The Prince couldn't understand a word, but he kept slamming into Phillipa. There were cheers and clapping as he finished. Phillipa was officially deflowered.
If her Royal Kitty Cat was a gaping hole before, it was much more open now, and dripped of his masculine cream.
The newlyweds stood, and bowed. First, to the King and Queen, then to the other three sides of their wedding stage. Those in attendance stood and cheered. As I said, this was a public spectacle, and those present expected to be entertained. And they were. There were whispered that she was surely impregnated.
Le Chevalier took his bride to his quarters where they'd continue their wedding day in private. He was too much of a gentleman to make a public spectacle of his disappointment.
He'd had virgins; the Royal Princess' Kitty Cat had clearly been defiled before. In his apartment, he was outraged that he'd been publicly humiliated. Le Chevalier knew the English found the French manner of sex barbaric. He insisted that his bride worship him on her knees, using her mouth.
Phillipa wasn't prepared for this. No one coached her on anything like this. She didn't know what to do, but she knew that she'd made a terrible mistake; deflowering herself that is.
Perhaps worshipping Le Chevalier in the way French women did was the only way Phillipa could make it up to her husband. Of course, she'd never even thought of this, but she was eager to please him.
He insisted that she spend the night on her knees adoring his cock. Three times he filled her mouth with his manly juices. By morning, even the Prince admitted, she'd become quite accomplished in the French way of making love.
When he'd had enough of her, he sent her back to her parents. It was the ultimate insult.
The next morning, Hugo, French Ambassador demanded a meeting with the King. "As spokesman for the Crown, I am appalled at the insult, not just to Le Chevalier, but to the French Crown itself."
"What's the problem, Mr. Ambassador?"
"Do not play with me, Your Highness. War is on the horizon unless we get satisfaction. We both know that your daughter was not a virgin, as you presented her to the King of France and Le Chevalier."
Yesterday, the Ambassador was honored with a prime seat at the foot of the bed, next to the English King and Queen. From there, he enjoyed an excellent view of the Royal Princess' yawning kitty cat. "The French Crown, and even Rome will never recognize this marriage."
"And what exactly is it that would satisfy the King of France and the Prince?"
That morning Hugo met with Le Chevalier. "Here are our demands. First, the King of England must present to Le Chevalier four women from the Royal Court to satisfy the Prince's manly desires.
"Second, the women of the Royal Court must service the Prince in the French manner. Although, if Le Chevalier so desires, he may take their kitty cat.
Third, this must be done in accordance with the traditions in place for yesterday's ceremony."
"Mr. Ambassador, your charges against my daughter are without merit, but war is certainly not the answer. I'll need a day or two to consider your demands."
"The French Crown is very generous. We will wait one week for your reply. Then the Royal French Entourage shall sail for France, where we shall prepare for war."
The King's chief counselor was the Queen. "War will bankrupt the Kingdom. We will be destitute, even if we win. What should I do?"
"And winning a war in France is no guarantee, is it?"
"No, and should France invade; if nothing else they'll destroy our fields, burn our towns. We shall be ruined. If the French don't kill us, our own people might murder us in our own beds."
"To say nothing of the young men who will go off to war and die. We need to find another way. Your Lordship, give me a day or two to come up with some ideas."
|
Note from the webmaster: authors always appreciate feedback about their stories, so by all means write the author a note if you liked the story! The author of this story: Thomas B |