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Author’s note: This quasi-historical fiction includes ambition, buggery and thuggery, scarification, and betrayal. All sex involves humans aged 18+. For readers’ convenience, non-Anglish language speech and signals are presented in loose Anglish translation.
** THE GIRL
It was unintentional. Quintilla had not set out to become a villainous queen. It just sort of happened, y’know? Or maybe it was inevitable.
Quintilla was a most unlikely prospective queen. Her father, Centero the cooper, pounded and banded great oaken barrels to be filled with oils, beers, wines, spirits, and other fine goods. His profound deafness was an occupational hazard.
Quintilla grew to be extraordinarily beautiful, and intelligent, and ambitious, and desperate, longing for a life far from a barrel-maker’s clangor. Her tired young stepmother Marsala totally sympathized and assisted the girl’s plots.
Quintilla schooled herself to move far beyond the social circles of a modest artisan’s family in the kingdom’s capitol. She learned skills and secrets of seamstressing and decoration and decorum. She learned smarmy upper-class accents and jokes. She eavesdropped and cajoled and imitated and sometimes seduced – innocently, of course.
“How far did you go with that novice, dear? You know he’s already taken vows.”
“Oh, only far enough. He doesn’t yet know all a priest’s nasty tricks.”
“Well, don’t neglect to douche before and after, just to be safe. Nettle tea is best.”
“Ha! No worry! That boy doesn’t know a cunny from a handjob!”
Quintilla’s ambitions grew along with her mounting skill and knowledge. Sophistication drove her. She set her sights high, very high – the highest possible. None could surpass her target: the small realm’s fat Crown Prince, Rupert the Red.
** THE PRINCE
I suspected him a sturdy begger, faking sacred epileptic seizures to gain pity and alms, especially alms. Many such infest our serene kingdom in this, our year of the Lord fourteen hundred and twelve, have mercy! Our realm surely has gone to shit.
But I digress. The ill-clad and bristly fellow flopped around for a bit on the flagstone court before me, and then lay still but for deep breaths, panting like a rat-bitten hound. I turned to my bailiff, Danilio Laurent.
“Signore Laurent, how would you determine the validity of a spastic such as this?” I nudged the filthy figure’s ear with my boot. “How can we tell if he is genuine?”
“Highness, I have always found that a painful amputation can be a powerful stimulant to confession.”
“Yes, signore, that sounds reasonable, quite reasonable. And where would you commence your investigation?”
“Well, your Highness, allow me to fetch my dagger and hatchet and don my work gloves, and I shall first remove the big toe of his right, no, of his left foot, for his is a dexter dope and that shall unbalance him more.”
Danilio prepared himself and moved to the paltry player’s foot. He examined his naked, filth-encrusted target, and nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, a simple chop should do the trick.” He hefted the hatchet, then stomped down on the quivering ankle and raised his arm for the downward hack.
“No! No! Stop! I confess! I was only playing a game on you! I was only having fun with you! Ha ha ha! It’s so much fun, isn’t it, fellows? You don’t need to hurt me! I will go away!” The fake spazz squirmed
Danilio looked to me, his master. “He has really done us no wrong, Highness. He has done nothing to deserve becoming a lame mendicant.”
I snorted. “He will only do this again if we do not punish him. No, cut it off anyway. That will teach him.”
Danilio raised his arm again. I clapped my hands together loudly.
“Wait! Stop, signore. To cripple him would only make him a true beggar gimp. We need some other method.”
Danilio considered. “How about the testicles, sire? Lacking those will bring him no advantage except in certain bars and baths. The boys may like him.”
“Excellent!” I clapped my hands. “Yes, do remove his balls! But wait. My royal sister Thalia will want to watch this too.” I pulled the bell cord to summon her.
Our game was always fun. This would be entertaining.
** THE FUGITIVE
Crossbow bolts fired by the troops below clattered behind him as he raggedly ran across rooftops under the savagely grinning full moon, ducking and swerving, jumping the gaps and different levels, breaking a few tiles in his haste. One bolt creased his tunic; too close!
Comte Iano of Cuneo cursed his damnable luck. His seduction of zaftig Princess Thalia had gone so well! The precious jewels she had gifted him with rattled in a leather pouch swinging from his rapier-belt. She was quite the lady. He enjoyed bending her over her cushioned settee and taking her inviting ass. Ah, that sweet puckered rosebud! No, she would not be embarrassed by pregnancy.
He had even tapped her royal mother. Yes, the queen was his, too, have mercy!
But then that damnable nişantaşı escort fat Crown Prince, his over-ripe sister Thalia tagging behind him, had chanced to turn the corner of the long palace hallway at the wrong moment. An anteroom door had swung open. Rupert saw his mother the Queen on her royal knees before the Comte, tickling her healthy tonsils with his noble glans. Rupert had shouted, drawn his sword, and waddled with surprising speed toward the cocksucking. Thalia stood and stared.
Iano managed to stuff his frustrated ferret back into his codpiece as he fled for the nearest balcony and lept onto a passing hay-wagon. Good luck cushioned his fall. Bad luck aimed the wagon directly into the palace courtyard.
Iano leaped again, to the cobbles, and ran past the sleepy guards at the gatehouse. A shout from the portly prince on the launching balcony roused the liveried laggards but Iano was already around a corner.
Pursuit drove the Comte to his rooftop run and possibly to his ruin. How long could he dodge the arrows? What would be Rupert’s retribution if he was captured. Iano had heard of the Crown Prince’s love of castration. Were that his only punishment, he could count himself lucky.
** THE GIRL, AGAIN
Mimicking the wealthy and noble was not enough for Quintilla to gain admission to their circles. No, she needed to look the part, too, with fine clothes of rich fabrics decked with gaudy jewels and thin precious-metal chains. The cooper’s daughter was no heiress; she could never afford such costly, necessary adornments.
What the cooper’s daughter lacked, the bandit princess could acquire. Quintilla had learned many skills from teachers high and low. She paid with beer and sex to be taught the secrets of lockpicking, pickpocketing, wall-climbing, dagger-thrusting, pouch-slashing, and similar useful arts.
“Never shout or speak in your normal voice. Never let any recognize you. Oooh, a little faster please. Oh yes, just like that.”
The courtesan and thief moaned as Quintilla’s crafty tongue circled and teased her aroused clitoris. Fingers pinched nipples. A long, engaging orgasm washed over her.
“Ahh, nice. Next, we’ll talk about distractions. Ah, do that again. Ummm…”
Carefully disguised, a black domino over her eyes, working only under dark skies, Quintilla assembled a small team of bandits. Their simple task was to clumsily rob merchant households to draw away and distract city guards while she stealthily stuck richer targets elsewhere. She prided herself on strategy.
The strategy worked almost every time. This time, she was unlucky. She happened to slide down her doubled escape line from the rich silk-merchant’s stronghold with a pouch of gold coins just as a city patrol happened around a corner, not far enough to avoid their notice. The gleam of her eyes in their torchlight gave her away.
The first crossbow bolt nearly caught her before she reached her planned escape route. That route led to the nearest high rooftops. More bolts rattled the roof tiles as she ran. If she could only make it to a building junction ahead, she could slip into the Thieves’ Quarter and thence to her hideaway.
** THE ENCOUNTER
Comte Iano of Cuneo heard crossbow bolts landing closer behind him – but also further, in front. He heard footsteps dashing toward him. Oh shit, was he caught?
Quintilla the bandit princess heard the same sounds as she dashed and sometimes stumbled. Oh fuck, was she caught?
They rounded a tower at a junction of buildings… and crashed headlong into each other. Both fell.
Quintilla saw a stranger in nobleman’s garb. “You’re not a guard,” she whispered.
Iano saw a masked young woman in tight black tunic and pantaloons. “They’ll kill me, or worse,” he gasped, and pushed himself up.
She accepted his offered hand and made a snap judgement.
“Follow me,” she murmured, and led him to escape.
Down dark alleys, over challenging walls, across ominous courtyards, dodging candlelit windows and torchlit gateways. Not far into the flight, Quintilla stopped and pressed her hand to Iano’s chest.
“You’re a noisy pig. You’ll have dogs barking and giving us away. You need to be silent. Here, walk like this,” she whispered, and quickly showed him how to walk stealthily but hastily.
“Not like that, dummy. Heel-to-toe, gently, steadily. Yes…”
They moved through dark passages to her hideaway under a pestilent tavern at the edge of the Thieves’ Quarter but not far from the district of wood- and metal-workers. The noxious hide-tanners and soap-makers were further out, have mercy!
Quintilla barred the room’s door and lit a tallow candle. Its smoky light revealed a small chamber with the crudest furnishings and a hanging rack of clothes. Quintilla looked at her companion.
“The guards will be searching for us. We can’t stay here – I must return to my family house – and you can’t go out looking like that. A priest? No, you have too much hair, so we can’t kağıthane escort do the priest-and-nun charade. You’ll dress as a craftsman and I’ll be your whore. Take off your clothes and put these on,” she said, sifting the costume stash and handing him a commoner’s tunic and pantaloons. She stripped off her own ninja-like garb.
Iano stared as the naked wench wrapped herself in indecently translucent sashes. She turned, saw his eyes, and slapped him.
“You want to die? That’s easy. You want to live? Get dressed, you moron. And forget your rapier. Artisans don’t carry those. This dagger on your belt will do. Leave any valuables, too.”
She pulled his jewel-filled pouch from his belt. That, and her own coin pouches, she hid in a chamber cut into her rough table.
She slapped the staring noble again. “Move, idiot! And don’t talk. Not a word.”
Iano shook himself and complied. Reconfigured, Quintilla pushed him out the door.
Their short journey took them past several suspicious city guards. Quintilla pulled Iano tight against her as they staggered on the walkways. She forced his hands to her breast and crotch.
“Grab me like you own me, fool,” she whispered. “I’m only a whore, remember?”
Iano had fucked more than a few whores in his life. He acted the part. Guards viewed and dismissed the staggering couple and continued their search for the bandit and the noble.
** THE REFUGE
They reached the cooper’s house a few minutes later. Quintilla led Iano up a steep stairway to the living quarters above the workshop. She stripped-off her wrap.
“There’s only one bed. Get naked and come with me.” She plucked at his tunic.
Iano shrugged out of his clothes. Quintilla tugged him to the wide, low bed’s straw-stuffed mattress. She pushed occupants out of the way and pulled him to her. An older pair, her father and his wife, lay coupled beside them. Full and step-siblings lay beyond. Quintilla spread her legs and rolled Iano atop her.
“Fuck me, fool. They’ll wake and be suspicious otherwise.”
Iano had a feeling she had done this before.
She fondled his cock.
“Umm, that’s a big one,” she whispered.
She stroked him to rigid stiffness and aimed him. He took the hint and slithered into her portal. She pulled his face to hers and moaned almost-silently into his mouth.
“You’re not so bad,” she muttered, and pulled his lips to her nipple.
Iano was practiced at pleasing women. He kissed her breasts, around and between and at each lovely point, and up her neck, and along her shoulders, and around her mouth… and then down her neck to her breasts again.
His noble knob moved into her depths very slowly at first, staying deep inside on the in-strokes, not waiting long on the out-strokes, and slightly adjusting his angle for best contact and friction. She gasped when her button hit his pubic bone. He smiled and reapplied his strokes.
Their motions were absorbed by the bed’s straw stuffing but their soft noises roused the cooper’s wife, Marsala. (She was his third wife; Quintilla’s mother was long dead.) Centero the cooper was quite deaf and heard nothing. (Cooperage is a very noisy craft.) Centero’s other children, beside the couple, stirred slightly. His sons, apprenticed as coopers, were almost deaf already; they barely twitched. His daughters grumbled sleepily but quickly returned to dreamland where they were transported to better worlds by handsome noblemen on dashing steeds, yada yada.
Centero’s main affliction, besides deafness, was his recent priapism. His erection never softened and he never came – but he had fun anyway. Marsala liked that. They were still joined from their last goodnight fuck. Marsala twisted so she rode atop his never-ending cock. Her large breasts slapped against her chest as she slowly drove herself toward satisfaction.
Iano moved steadily between Quintilla’s open thighs; he could not help noticing the adjacent copulation. The room was profoundly dark but he saw the moving shadow, sensed the moving mammaries. He leaned to her and mouthed a fluffy aureole. She moaned and pushed her torso toward him.
Quintilla’s hand pulled his face back to hers some seconds later.
“Not now,” she hissed. “Pay attention to me now.”
So Iano fucked harder, and Quintilla clutched tighter, and Marsala rode faster, and all came (mostly quietly) at nearly the same time. And Centero, who heard nothing but probably experienced a juicy wet-dream, shifted under his rider, and snored.
** THE MORNING
Daybreak came too soon. Marsala crawled off her husband and bestirred the children. Centero glanced incuriously at his eldest daughter and her fuckmate and followed them. Quintilla slapped Iano awake.
“Come now, time to dress and eat. We’ll talk later.”
After a hearty meal of porridge and cheese, Centero and his sons went downstairs to bang nascent barrels together. Marsala set the daughters to housework chores and then motioned Quiintilla osmanbey escort and Iano to sit at the main room’s table again. She poured watered wine into rough cups.
“Is there a story?” the stepmother asked.
Quintilla rolled her eyes.
“Oh yes. Quite a story and I don’t know much of it. I was nearly caught and then I ran into this aristocratic twit. We made it back here alive, have mercy. Well, twit, what is your story?”
She slapped his cheek. Not too hard. Noticeable.
Iano sipped his wine and surveyed the eyes piercing him. He cleared his throat.
“I an Iano, Comte de Cuneo in Savoy. I-“
Quintilla slapped his cheek again, harder.
“No bullshit, moron. Tell the truth.”
She swung at him again. He grabbed her hand.
“You’re a prickly one, aren’t you? That IS the truth, peasant! I am the sitting count of a small, poor domain. Or I was, till I left. My younger brother now wastes his times trying to run the place. Anyway, my father, the previous Comte de Cuneo, mortgaged the entire realm to pay for his gambling. I had little in the way of resources when he died, drunk, in the arms of several prostitutes, and left me his title and debts. Only the title has been of any use to me. I have spent my adult life as a noble vagabond, traveling throughout Europe, guesting at royal and noble courts, or in abbeys when necessary.
“I have been well-received in most places and have feasted with many monarchs, dukes and duchesses, princes and margraves and archbishops. I have prospered through my own efforts – and that is why I am with you now. Without immodesty, I can say that I have some expertise as a lover.”
Quintilla’s mouth twitched to an almost-smile. Yes, she had enjoyed his cock, which he had used with some skill. She straightened her face again.
“Yes, I have prevailed with many of the highest women in Christendom, with queens and princesses and even abbesses, have mercy. Many have chosen to gift me with precious metals and jewels. Your own realm’s Princess Thalia saw fit to provide me with rare stones… which are now in your hideaway, girl. Oh, you have not even told me your name yet!”
“I am Quintilla, eventually to be queen of this realm, and this is my stepmother Marsala, who will be at my right hand. And you are a slimy toad; I believe not a word. Except… those were jewels in your pouch. I wonder…” She shook her head. “But why were you running across rooftops with guards shooting at you?”
“My dear Quintilla, I have great talent in wooing elegant women. And I usually have great luck in my assignations. But last night, alas, I was carelessly, er, rather intimate with her royal majesty the Queen, as I had been with the generous Princess Thalia; and by the most damnable bad luck, we were seen by your Crown Prince Rupert the Red and Thalia. He raised the alarm. The chase was on. You know the rest.”
He drank more of his wine and tried not to wince.
“And I am now at your tender mercies. I dare not venture into the city in daylight – too many guards would recognize me. Doubtless my lodging has been ransacked. I possess only these humble clothes you forced on me, Quintilla. You possess my other clothes, my rapier, and those few jewels, my only remaining wealth.’
Another sip from the clay cup. A look directly in Quintilla’s eyes.
“You would do best to murder me this very moment. If you send me out, I will be captured, and tortured, and I will scream out all I know… including your names, have mercy. And I cannot remain. I doubt your family will suffer my presence here for long,” he said, glancing at Marsala, “and my presence is unlikely to remain unknown.
“But I propose this. Hide me here until darkness tonight. From your hiding place, retrieve my clothes and rapier. I beg you to purchase all the jewels for one gold coin – that will see me through to the next realm. Then I shall sneak away, to be gone from here forever. What say you, my dear Quintilla?”
The girl stared into his eyes and sipped from her cup. A blink; then she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She sighed softly but otherwise did not move.
“Let me think. I have an idea.” She looked at him again. “Stay today. Guards may come searching; we have a hidden cellar they have never yet found.” Another blink. “Yes, stay today. I think I may have some use for you – and you may survive a bit longer. Longer than you deserve, likely. But…”
Quintilla turned to her stepmother.
“Hide him, sweet Marsala. I must go below to manage father’s account books; he always messes them up. Then I will go out and learn a few things, and think more. Hide this self-proclaimed ‘count’ until I return.”
She saw Marsala glance quickly but hungrily at Iano. Likely remembering last night’s breast-sucking, she thought.
“And don’t get caught,” she warned. Marsala blushed. Iano barely twitched.
Quintilla pushed away and descended the steep staircase. Pounding from below echoed up its narrow passage.
** THE REFUGE, DEEPER
Marsala bustled to clear the kitchen and then led Iano down those same steps. They paused only a moment at the doorway leading to the noisy workshop, then passed through a closed door and down a similar flight of steps.
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