My Queen, My Master

I knew from the moment I met her at the Ombriere Palace that Eleanor would mean purgatory for me. The hair was the first thing that caught my attention; long, red-golden waves hanging, swirling down her back. It looked touchable, pullable. I just wanted to bury my hands through it and twist and tug right there on the spot. Her eyes were catlike, dark as night and beguiling, and her skin was pale with an underlaying pink color. Her lips were thick and plump, and her beauty well set throughout her face, but it was her body that set my mouth dry. She was curved like a mountain road, jutting out at her breasts and hips and thighs.

Though she was my wife, the temptress drove me to sin over and over again. She caught my cock in her little noble grasp and never let go. "Louis," she would whisper in my ear, "fill me up. Make me yours and ride me. Take me." And I would. But those were the early days, before we found the pleasure that would be our ultimate undoing.

One evening, as I was buried deep inside her, watching her dark eyes squirm with pleasure beneath me, she ran her uncut nails down my back and the pleasure was like nothing I had ever experienced before. The pain was remarkable, and I emptied myself right then and there, before Eleanor had her climax. As I hovered above her—ashamed at my prematureness—I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes as she thought hard. A devilish little smile grew on her rosy lips and she pushed me off of her.

"I know about perverts like you," she snarled, mounting me. She whipped her hair across my face and I tensed, growing hard once again. "You like pain, don't you, Louis?" she bit my shoulder hard and I groaned. She ground her cunt against my stomach and I felt the honey flowing from her, seeping into my skin.

"You're my slave, now. You're no king any more—you're just a lowly, filthy slave, and I'm your master." Eleanor pulled herself from me and stood beside the bed. She gave my penis a small but smart slap and pulled a scarf from her discarded attire on the ground. "Don't move," she instructed me sharply. I almost burst right then and there as she tied the scarf tight round my wrists, nearly cutting off my circulation. "See you in the morning, slave."

Now, I lay awake while my third wife, Adele—so lovely and so very dull—slumbers beside me, my mind drifts to my youth with Eleanor, and I blush under the heavy judgment from the Father above. That woman drove me to the ends of the earth and back again. I sought salvation in the Holy Land to atone for our sins in the bedchamber, and it subsequently ruined our marriage. Sometimes I wonder if God really minded—if he even noticed my digressions—but then I remember who I am. I am King Louis VII of France, and I am above all other men, and below heaven only. God watches me closer than most others but it was the devil who was inside of me those nights when Eleanor was jamming foreign objects up my asshole and whipping me like a horse. And I came over and over again until there was nothing left in me.

Eleanor was Queen by day and King by night. She ruled me with her beautifully fragrant cunt and pert breasts, and her iron hands which beat me until my skin was bruised and raw, and my stomach covered with my own seed. I made her my God, because I felt betrayed by Him when he took my older brother and made me heir. I was never supposed to rule—I was supposed to serve the Lord.

In the early years of our marriage, before the girls were born, I would finish my kingly duties and return to the bedchamber where Eleanor was waiting for me in some beguiling gown, with her tits on display and a whip in her hand. The moment I walked across the threshold to our den of sin was the moment I relinquished all power to my stunning wife, and for hours we would travel to the brink of paradise and never quite return.

Under her control, I felt a fire within me that I've never felt since, and I know now that it was Satan's doing. She forced me to strip; first my robe, then my tunic and breeches, and finally the hairshirt she made me wear during the day as a reminder of her dominance. She ran her long, sharp nails over the irritated skin, agitating it further. I grew hard instantly, and she forced me to the floor on my hands and knees. She cracked the whip in the air and I felt a surge of pleasurable anticipation through my cock. She lifted it again, but this time brought it down on my striped ass. She whipped me fifty licks each night—of varying severity—and by the end I could feel the blood rushing down my back and ass.

"You are worthless, slave," she told me as she brought the very last lick down between my ass cheeks. It stung so terribly but I was hard as ever. Her voice was husky yet feminine and I found it so erotic. I was never allowed to talk unless she instructed me to do so.

She dug her nails into my wounds, drawing even more blood, and wiped it across my cock. Sometimes that was the only direct contact she would have with my member; her touch was so infuriatingly rare. As she bent down, her red-gold mane brushed against my face and neck, and I could hold it in no longer. Still on all fours, I blew my load onto the floor below and Eleanor got angry. "How dare you?!" her pretty face turned red and she scolded me with a hard kick to the stomach. "How dare you? I didn't give you permission to do that! You'll have to be punished now."

I became aroused once more with the prospect of punishment. My wife stripped off her gown and hopped up on the bed, legs wide open. "Come, slave."

Her cunt was staring at me as I lowered my face to it. She lifted her foot to my chin and sent me flying back. "Get the manacle," she instructed. I did so, fastening it to the bed and offering my ankle for her to lock me in. "Now get down there. You know what to do."

Breathing her sweet aroma in deeply, I fastened my mouth around her clitoris and pulled. She trembled with pleasure. I licked from her hardened bud to her leaky hole, slipping my fingers in to bring her more pleasure. So lost was I in her womanhood that I didn't even immediately notice that a golden stream of piss was pouring from her, wetting my face and neck and hair. I lapped it up eagerly, for I was so thirsty for the taste of her sweet piss. She threw her head back and laughed cruelly. "You're worthless. You're nothing more than a chamberpot, slave."