Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess. He travelled all over the world in his quest, and many were the beautiful damsels he brought home to the castle; but always his parents would find something that was not quite right about them.
Sometimes this would happen as soon as they crossed the threshold; and then, his old father would draw him aside, shake his head sadly, and say, “My son... she is not a real princess.” And the old queen's eyes would glare through her lorgnette in beady disapproval at the imposter's imitation pearls, or the cheap nine-carat stud in her navel.
But if they survived the preliminary examination, the Formal Dinner would invariably prove to be their undoing.
Many failed the soup test – real princesses do NOT slurp. Some even failed the chicken test, although any intelligent would-be princess will know that to use a knife and fork on a chicken leg is a ghastly solecism. But the Formal Dinner comprises many subtler traps, and no amount of careful reading or book-study will forearm the ambitious social climber against them. Many a charming and ingenious young woman, overcome by the royal sherry, would ruin her chances by starting to sing an inappropriate song, or venturing a joke that would make the old queen cough into her soup.
And so, by and by, the Prince lost heart, and contented himself with his computer games, his collection of fast sports-cars and his even bigger collection of busty mistresses. True, it was a blow to his self-esteem that he could not attract a real princess; but when all was said and done, a queen might well meddle in one's domestic policy and ruin all one's fun.
But the old king and queen were sticklers for tradition, and never lost hope that one day a real princess might be found; for without a legitimate claimant, all sorts of intrigue – and worse – might break out between their errant son's bastard progeny.
And then, one chilly evening, the sky became dark, and it began to rain – not heavily, but enough to water the flowers. Sighing, the queen stared glumly through the window at the dreary sky.
Suddenly, she hears a quiet tap-tap-tap. And then, a little louder, tap-tap-tap. “Madge! Madge! There's someone at the castle door. Do go and see who it is.”
Sighing at the distraction, the old king gets up from his parliamentary reports and shuffles down the hall, muttering to himself. “Get no respect these days... Madge, indeed...”
But when he opens the door, he is astounded.
Clad as she is in rags and tatters, for a split second his majesty is under the impression that this beautiful but frail young woman must be a beggar; but on second glance, the rags and tatters are far too skimpy and insubstantial to clothe a beggar-girl, too flimsy and impractical by far — and too artfully revealing of the willowy young body beneath. And isn't that a genuine Mappin & Webb tiara nestled there, amid those golden curls?
“Excuse us, your majesty,” the charming vision breathes, in pleading but cultured tones. “We were just travelling through your realm when this beastly weather came on, and we're terribly afraid that if we go on very much further our lovely white Rolls will get all muddy.”
The old king puts his hand to his chin. “Wait a moment,” says he, and turning, calls out, “Queenie! Oh Queenie! Come and have a look at this!”
After a few moments, the old queen joins him at his side.
“Well?” he mutters gruffly to his spouse. “What do you think? At first we thought she was a beggar girl. But isn't that one of those things by Alexander McWhatsit?”
“No, dear,” the queen laughs quietly. “That's Dior, that is. That's Galliano, for sure. And very fetching it is, too.”
The charming creature at the door speaks up timidly. “Your Majesty is quite right,” she says, dropping a perfect curtsey.
The queen studies her carefully through her lorgnette. “You look like a princess,” she murmurs grudgingly.
“Just so, ma'am.” Another perfect curtsey.
“Hmmm,” purrs the queen, pleased. “You'd better come in, child. You must be frozen, standing out there.”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
Her Majesty drapes a royal arm around the frail shoulders, taking care not to tear the flimsy designer dress. “Since it is so foul outside, you must stay with us. We shall be having supper shortly.”
“Your Majesty is very kind.”
The queen gives her a little squeeze. “So what brought you out in such inclement weather?”
“Oh, I was just out looking for stray puppies.”
“You like puppies, child?”
“Yes. Don't you think their little pink tongues are sweet?”
The queen stops and turns to face her visitor. They are standing under a portrait of Anacrupia III, the present king's great-grandmother, and one of the most imposing of the queens of Taxavenia. Her imperious eyes seem to stare down at the princess, as if searching for the least stain of unworthiness.
The queen has become as stiff and inquisitorial as her illustrious forebear, the lorgnette focusing her stare. “Tongues, do you say?”
But the princess's brow is clear, her eyes limpid pools of pale blue. “Yes, ma'am, and their dear, pleading little eyes.”
It is clear that this girl is an innocent. The queen's lips twitch into a gentle smile. “What's your name, child?”
“Fallopia, ma'am.” Another curtsey.
“And... how many times a day do you bathe?”
“Thrice daily, ma'am. Once after breakfast, before getting dressed; once before dinner; and once, finally, before bed.”
“Hmph.” The queen is well satisfied: this is the correct answer, faultlessly delivered. The lower orders may skimp on two baths a day – or worse, take a shower – but a real princess is properly clean. “Come, my dear,” she says in a warmer tone, affectionately squeezing the bony young shoulder as they resume their progress up the hall to the Great Stairs. “Mops! Mops!”
A little maid scurries from her humble quarters beneath the stair. She wears a short, plain black dress with a white lace collar. She has a cringing, ingratiating air. “Your Majesty?” she quavers.
“Kindly conduct her royal highness to the royal guest-room. She will require a bath. Then tell cook we shall have a Special Dinner. And Priscilla will serve.”
Anxious to please, Mops curtseys with all the grace of a collapsing deck-chair. “Yes'm,” she squeaks, and rushes to the stairs before turning her head. “This way, your royal highness.”
“Would you like some of our excellent sherry with your soup?”
They are seated at the supper table, and the Soup Test has begun.
“Um... thank you, your majesty, but only a very tiny glass. My mother says I'm still too young to begin Decadence lessons.” She casts an anxious eye at the strange young man at the far end of the table, who has pushed his bowl of soup aside and appears to be pressing buttons on a small grey plastic box which he has on the table before him. At that very moment, it emits a sequence of high-pitched electronic beeps.
“Oh for heaven's sake, Maurus,” says the king, “turn the blessed sound off.”
“Sorry, dad,” says the young man, not looking up.
“Now what's he playing?” sighs the queen.
“Something apparently called Zirgonia Three.” The king rolls his eyes. Then, maintaining his pious countenance, he says a brief grace.
Only Maurus does not murmur “Amen” when it is finished. “Bammmm!” he says softly, pushing a button.
The queen sighs again. Her hand is poised over her spoon. The king's hand is poised over his. Both look expectantly at the lovely Princess Fallopia.
There is silence.
Aware that she is supposed to do something, Fallopia looks down at her spoon. “Oh,” she cries, in a voice of carefully restrained disappointment.
“Something wrong, child?” Her majesty's voice is soft and encouraging. “Don't be afraid to say.”
“It's just... It's just...” Fallopia is evidently struggling with a problem of etiquette.
“Say what it is, child: we won't be offended,” coos the queen in the most soothing tone she can muster.
“It's just that...” Fallopia remembers what her mother had said, and considers it neither wise nor tactful to repeat it. “Well,” she stammers, “I... I don't seem to have a correct spoon.”
Their majesties sit back with an audible sigh of relief. They are all smiles. “Did you hear that, Maurus?”
Maurus is bent over his electronic game. “Wha?” he murmurs, looking up briefly. Then his eyes are back on his game. “Boom! Gotcha!”
Their majesties are impressed to note that Fallopia pays their errant son not the slightest attention. This is very promising.
“Priscilla! Take away these silly spoons, and bring us the correct ones, if you please!”
The old queen watches Fallopia carefully through her lorgnette as Priscilla replaces the soup spoons with the proper, old-fashioned kind. She notes that whereas the young princess is apt to keep her eyes modestly downcast, she cannot help following Priscilla with her eyes whenever she is in the room. And no wonder: for Priscilla is strikingly tall and slender, and moves with a hypnotic, feline grace. But not only this: for, as if to emphasize these qualities beyond all doubt, she is clad from neck to toe in a skin-tight black velvet cat-suit, and for decoration wears only a little diamond-studded pet-collar. Her jet-black hair is close-cropped, her lips a brilliant crimson; and under her black, sinuous brow, her dark eyes occasionally flash in the princess's direction. No mere maid-servant she: this is Lady Priscilla Cummings-Knightley, her majesty's most intimately trusted and attentive lady-in-waiting.
And does her majesty now note a little flush on the young princess's cheek, as Priscilla sashays elegantly to her station behind the service door? And is that tender young bosom perhaps heaving a little faster than before? And does that sudden, rapid flick of the tongue betoken the secret welling of desires hitherto undreamed-of? At any rate, her majesty thinks, the dear child has impeccable taste.
“Maurus, for heaven's sake turn that blasted machine off and eat your soup!” The king is a little irate, and only just restrains himself from banging the table with his fist.
The young man flicks a switch with a sigh, and draws his bowl in front of him.
The soup is eaten in sepulchral silence; it is not until the very end that, to his wife's well-concealed chagrin, the king makes the tiniest, the very tiniest of slurps, which he hastily tries to cover up with a cough.
Normally, her majesty would remonstrate, but this evening she watches Fallopia intently. A person of lesser breeding might giggle; but Fallopia's countenance is relaxed and expressionless, as if she were listening to a dissertation on mediaeval warfare.
And the queen's favourable impression is maintained when the chicken is served, and Fallopia begins looking anxiously about her.
“Are you looking for something, my child?”
“Only... please ma'am... where are the gloves?”
“Ah!” Her majesty claps her hands. “Priscilla! The gloves!” And she watches with a warm smile and a sympathetic heart as the young princess's flushed countenance betrays its owner's fascinated admiration of their elegant waitress. Only two tests now remain, and for once the hopes are high.
“A little more wine, my child?”
“Oh... no, thank you... just half a glass is plenty...” and then she adds with an earnest little nod, “...though it's very nice.”
Eventually, the dessert arrives.
“So, my dear,” the king addresses her conversationally, “where is your family from?”
“Our family ruled Labia Minora until the 1920s, sir.”
“Labia Minora?” The king seems perplexed. “I'm not sure where that is.”
“Oh, Henry, you're hopeless!” His wife rolls her eyes in mock despair before turning to their guest. “Forgive him, my dear,” she says. “He's wonderful on economics and tax legislation, but when it comes to geography, he just hasn't a clue!” She turns to admonish her husband in tones of infinite condescension. “It's near Labia Majora. They're islands in the Mediterranean, dear.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” he mutters.
Her majesty turns back to their charming young guest. “And so... your family lives here... in exile?”
The young princess responds with a nod.
“What drove them away from Labia? A coup? A revolution?”
“Well...” The young princess puts down her spoon and closes her eyes for a moment, as if remembering a lesson learned by rote. “The republican forces took over Labia Majora in 1919, two years after the tragedy at Yekaterinburg. For a time, the royal family was allowed to remain at its country seat, but the function of head of state was assumed by an elected President. In the following year, a military coup led by General Ernesto Bulli resulted in the clandestine murder of President Fernando Pasto and several of his closest aides. Fearing for their lives, the deposed Felix IX and his family sought refuge on Labia Minora, where our family housed them at our summer residence at Monte Veneralia. There they lived peacefully until 1922, while my great-grandfather made peaceful representations to the Majoran junta for compensation for the loss of the confiscated royal properties. Later in that year, however, a small party of assassins made their clandestine way into Minora from the south, and after some weeks travelling across country, finally reached Monte Veneralia, where, under the cover of night, they murdered Felix and all his family, before setting fire to the mansion.” Fallopia opens her eyes, to find her royal hosts listening intently, hanging upon her words.
“Egad!” says the king, sensing that comment is required.
“Oh shut up, Henry,” his wife retorts. She turns back to their entrancing visitor. “Do have a little more wine, dear. Just half a glass more won't do any harm.”
“Oh... really... well... very well, thank you,” she falters, helplessly: the queen, judging that Priscilla's reappearance would create an unwelcome distraction, pours it herself.
Fallopia takes a tiny sip, closes her eyes and resumes her narrative. “The following year, the junta on Majora sent an ultimatum to my great-grandfather: either he abdicated in favour of a modern republican regime, or the Majorans would invade and destroy what they called our primitive, feudal system of government. Of course, it was well known that the citizens of Minora were relatively prosperous and content, since the soil was more fertile and better irrigated than on the larger island. My great-grandfather sensed that the Majorans did not genuinely hold the interests of his people at heart. He was also mindful that the peaceful Minorans were ill-equipped to defend the island against the large and well-trained Majoran army.”
“I believe the Minorans were a far more sensitive, artistic, pleasure-loving people,” comments the queen.
“That is so, ma'am.”
“Heavens, Queenie, how do you know all this?” The king seems surprised.
“Just because I'm a woman, Henry, it doesn't mean that I am completely ignorant.”
“No, of course not, dear.”
“Well, then... Pray do continue, dear.”
“Well, sir, ma'am... Doubting the intentions of the Majorans, my great-grandfather refused to abdicate, denouncing the militaristic ambitions of the junta and the Majorans’ long-nursed envy of the peaceful and prosperous Minorans. However, very prudently, and in the best interests of his people, he transferred to Taxavenia the greater part of his wealth, in order to fund for as long as necessary a government in exile, and to seek international support for the defence of his people, in the event that the junta's intentions proved as dishonorable as he feared. When, in 1924, a vast flotilla was seen setting out from Majora and proceeding in our direction, my great-grandfather feared a bloody invasion...”
“Wait a moment,” the king interrupts, turning to his wife. “Princesses don't say ‘bloody’, do they?”
Slowly, her majesty raises her lorgnette and looks incredulously at her husband. He looks down, uneasy. “Coming from you, Henry,” she drawls, “that's pretty rich, don't you think?”
Henry blushes and moves his fingers nervously on the table-top. “Er... I... I just thought that...”
“Henry dear,” she says, somewhat louder, “why don't you just be quiet and eat your mousse?” Then, turning back to their guest with an engaging smile: “I'm sorry, dear. You were saying... Fearing an invasion...”
Fallopia gulps and continues. “Fearing a... an invasion, our family, together with a number of well-placed supporters, boarded the royal yacht and...”
“...And sought refuge here,” concludes the queen. “But I had no idea about this. Nor did you, Henry, evidently.”
“No, dear,” he admits.
“Why didn't we know?”
“It was a question of security. The junta might have sent their secret agents here to murder us in our beds.”
The queen nods thoughtfully. “And how have your people lived? Investments made with the old royal reserves?”
“Partly, ma'am; and partly through new business ventures which, should the political climate change, might fund a reconstruction of our people's blighted economy. For unlike Malta, the Greek islands and the Balearics, the benighted Labian regime has so far failed to bring to its people the financial benefits that could be reaped from these lush and fertile islands, offering as they do an ideal site for pleasure-grounds...”
“Business ventures?” The king leans forward, interested.
“Yes, sir. Our family assumed the name Bancarolli.”
“Bancarolli!” The king leans back in amazed amusement. The Bancarolli dynasty, as they call it, owns the third biggest hotel and casino chain in Taxavenia – and is one of the most generous contributors to the royal coffers. “Well I never!” He turns to his wife. “Look, dear, I think this has gone on long enough, don't you? I mean, isn't it obvious?” He shrugs his shoulders and spreads his arms in an expressive gesture.
The queen, however, is unmoved. She points a thumb at Maurus, still intently pushing buttons at the foot of the table. “Zow!” he says.
“Aren't you forgetting something, Henry? H'm? Casanova here?”
“O Lord, yes, of course! The succession!”
The queen has one of her coughing-fits. Concerned, the king rises and pats his wife's back, handing her a crystal glass of water. “There, there, my dear,” he murmurs, “there, there...”
“Henry,” his wife says, as she gradually recovers her composure, “would you be a darling and go and have a nice quiet, thoughtful cigar in the library? And do take Prince Kepow there with you, so Fallopia and I can have a peaceful chat.”
The king sighs and nods in acquiescence. “Come, Maurus!” he calls.
Maurus gets up, still holding the device in front of him, still pushing buttons.
“If we didn't compel him to turn that blessed thing off from time to time, I do believe the idiot boy would starve to death,” says the queen in a tone of despair.
“Shut up, mum, this is a really good game!”
“Come on, Maurus!” calls his majesty, a little more insistently.
Maurus frantically pushes his buttons, not quite moving from his place, until his little device sounds a derisive series of electronic beeps. “Doh!” he splutters. “Nearly!” Eventually he makes his exit, his eyes scarcely leaving the screen of the little device, so that he almost bumps into the door-frame. His father closes the door behind them.
Once they are alone, her majesty relaxes in her chair. “Now, dear, tell me about yourself. What studies have you pursued?”
“Oh, the usual... History, of course, and Mathematics... French, English, Italian, Spanish...”
“Sciences?”
“No. Mama did not think it appropriate.”
“And the arts?”
“Certainly: drama, visual arts, embroidery, music...”
“Ah! Music? What do you play?”
“The flute – and the piano. But I'm much better at the flute.”
“I am sure you are, my dear. And... do you like children?”
“Yes, quite. But mostly I like animals. Dogs and...” The princess's voice sinks low. “Dogs and...”
“Yes?” The queen's voice is quietly excited. “And?”
“And perhaps... Perhaps I might like... cats, too...”
“Cats, h'm?”
The princess blushes, but says nothing.
In a quiet, almost inaudible voice, the queen presses her. “Black ones?”
For a moment, the young princess seems lost in a reverie. Then, “Yeah,” she breathes, with a quiet, musical giggle that the queen has not heard before.
The queen gives a complicit smile. “I particularly like cats. You might have noticed, dear. I like stroking them, don't you?”
Fallopia is still staring dreamily, and licks her lips. “I've never had a cat,” she murmurs.
The queen glances at the clock, and then places her hands palm downwards on the table. “Well!” she says in a louder, more normal voice. “No doubt you're tired, poor thing. Why don't you have a lovely hot, scented bath – Mops will have it ready for you by now – and I'll come up and say good-night to you, h'm? Got to have your beauty-sleep, eh?”
They rise, and Fallopia smiles at the queen. “That's what mama always says.”
“Come, then, dear...”
The queen finds Priscilla stretched face-down on the bed in the Royal Bedchamber. His majesty and the prince, of course, sleep at the far end of the house, as is the royal custom: for as you will appreciate, royal females are creatures of exquisite sensitivity and none could hope to sleep in any proximity to their husbands’ casement-rattling snores.
Her majesty sits on the edge of the bed and pets her consort's rear. “Well, puss, and what did you think?”
For answer, Lady Priscilla growls and writhes her hips into the bed.
“Don't bite my lovely silk bed-spread, you naughty thing!” Her majesty administers a playful slap on the delightfully firm black velvet posterior. “Stop play-acting and tell me what you really think.”
Lady Priscilla turns over. “Oh, Queenie, she's lovely. I want her. And she wants me.”
Her majesty scratches Priscilla's tummy affectionately. “You know perfectly well that's out of the question!”
“Purrrrfectly well!”
The queen imitates her, running her fingers playfully up to Priscilla's breast: “Purrrfectly! I can't have a sweet innocent girl like her being depraved by a big fierce animal like you.”
“Grrrrr...”
“Grrrr...”
They kiss for a while; but then the queen sits up and gives her a playful slap. “Now you know how important this is. I want you to help, and none of your nonsense. Not tonight.”
“Owww... Can't I wear my whiskers and just...”
“No you can not wear your whiskers! Honestly! I'll smack you again!” The queen stands up. “Tonight I shall not disrobe, as I shall need to sit in the ante-room.”
“Why must you sit up all night? I'm all tensed-up.” Lady Priscilla pouts. “I need soothing.”
“You'll just have to soothe yourself, then, and mind you do it silently. These girls nowadays get up to all sorts of tricks, and if I'm not there to listen, I could very easily make a terrible mistake. Remember that one who started snoring as soon as the door was closed? I don't know whom she thought she was fooling. And then there was that other one, the leather one...”
“Mmmm, I remember her. She was nice.” Priscilla writhes seductively on the bed.
“Yes, she was. But I should have guessed. Tough as nails, that one, but she couldn't resist the royal sceptre. She was out of that bed and humping the cushion like a jockey's widow in half the time it takes to sing the national anthem. I should have suspected that no real princess could ever ride a motorcycle. Isn't that how she came?”
“Well, I think I would, on a 500cc single-cylinder like hers. Wowwww!” Priscilla rolls on the bed in ecstasy.
“You're not a princess! You're a naughty animal.”
“I like naughty animals!”
The queen looks at her watch. “She'll be out of the bath now. I must begin my examination. Give me fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, make yourself useful, stop playing with yourself and put some fresh batteries in that sceptre.”
Princess Fallopia is flushed and radiant after her hot bath, and is now draped in a beautiful white silk dressing-gown with spun gold edging. She emerges into the bed-chamber, which is chill after the hot, steamy bathroom. But Fallopia is still glowing from her bath, and feels alive in every pore.
Her majesty makes her entrance.
“Ma'am?” quavers the princess.
“There! I just wanted to talk with you frankly, my dear, because you must understand something. You see, we have been testing you.”
“Testing me?”
“Yes. You see, we are looking for a real princess.”
“But I am a real princess!”
“Dear, I'm almost sure of it. But we cannot be too careful. We've had coachloads of pretty young girls come here, claiming to be real princesses. So we have to be sure. Do you understand?”
The princess is thoughtful. “Is that why his majesty mentioned the succession at dinner?”
The queen winces; but there is no denying it. She nods and sighs. “I am afraid that Maurus must marry royalty, and have a legitimate heir. The interests of state demand it.”
“But... ma'am... wouldn't that mean that I'd have to...? Oh goodness...” Fallopia shudders delicately. “I don't think I could bear...”
“Hush, child! Hush now!” The queen's voice is soft and reassuring. “Didn't your mother tell you the facts of life?”
“Well, of course I was told what commoners do.” Fallopia shudders again. “I don't think I could bear it. I'm sure I could not. Why, I'd be black and blue if a man did that to me!”
“Of course, dear! — But did she not tell you how a true princess conceives?”
Fallopia shakes her head. “All she would tell me is that it is done with a special kiss. — But that's silly, isn't it?”
“Your mother told you the truth,” replies the queen. “It is indeed a special kiss. Why did she not explain it further?”
“She said I'd learn all about it in Decadence. But she said I was not to be instructed in Decadence yet.”
“But why was that, child?”
“She said that I was too young.”
“How old are you?”
“I'm nineteen and a half.”
“That's old enough by far! Why, you have been kept in ignorance, child! Come, I'll give you your first lesson.”
“It's very kind of your majesty,” gushes the princess, clasping her hands ingratiatingly. “I've always wanted to learn!”
The queen chuckles. “I'm sure you have, dear.” She reaches behind her neck, and unfastens her golden neck-chain. “Do you see this chain?”
“Ooh! I can only just see it!”
“Yes, my child,” says the queen softly. “It is the finest, most delicate golden chain in all the world. Look closely.”
The princess approaches, her bare feet silent upon the lush carpet. Her lovely, sparkling eyes are suddenly wide with curiosity. “It's beautiful!”
The queen swings the chain a little, delighted to see the princess's eyes follow its every movement. “You like it, child?”
“Is that Decadence? A chain like that?”
The queen lets out a quiet, musical laugh. “No, my sweet; but I will use it to instruct you in the first of the decadent arts.”
“And that is...?”
“That, my child, is Depravity.”
The princess clasps her hands in delight. “Depravity! Why, that sounds perfectly delightful! — Tell me, what must I do?”
“First, you must slip off your gown, and lie down upon the bed.”
“But... but... there are no bedclothes.”
The queen points over to the far side of the room, where there is a vast heap of bedding, all piled on top of a spare mattress. “See there? There are the bedclothes. We will make use of them presently. Quick, now...”
Obediently, and with gracious modesty, the princess disrobes, her back to the queen. Then, turning shyly, she sits upon the edge of the bed; and at last, with a little sigh of resignation, she lowers herself and brings her legs up, knees modestly together as a princess is trained to do.
The queen sits beside her and gently positions the royal maiden's legs with knees bent, just sufficiently apart.
Fallopia pales and her eyes widen again, this time in fear. “You're not going to... to examine me, are you?”
The queen cannot help blushing. “I am afraid that I must, child. We must be sure that you are a real princess.”
“Oh... oh dear... oh dear...” Fallopia cries in a piteous tone.
“Why, what is the matter?”
“Nurse is always doing this to me. It's so... so very uncomfortable!”
The queen cannot suppress a smile. “Why, does she pull you apart?”
“Yes,” sniffs the princess. “I always plead with her to be gentle, and she always says that she is being gentle, and she sounds so angry, and although I'm sure she's trying her best, she always hurts me so...”
“Why, that's barbarous! That's no way to treat a real princess. Do not fear, my child...” The queen strokes the tender thigh reassuringly. “One of the first arts of decadence is to make you open up all by yourself. It won't hurt at all, I promise. That's where the golden chain comes in.”
“How? I don't understand... Oooh!”
The queen's chuckle comes from deep in her throat. “I'm being very gentle. Do you feel it?”
“Haha!” Fallopia licks her lips. “Yes. It... it tickles rather.”
Delicately, the queen raises and lowers the chain, gently parting the stray wisps of hair so that the fine gold whispers unimpeded against the smooth, tender skin at the meeting of the lips. The princess's hips are at just the right angle, and the little clasp on the end of the chain brushes delicately over that wonderfully sensitive little area, just between Scylla and Charybdis, that only doctors have a name for.
“Haha!” The young princess bites her lower lip. “Haha!” Her soft giggles are already rising in pitch, becoming more girlish, more self-indulgent.
“It doesn't hurt, does it?”
Fallopia lazily shakes her head from side to side. “Hee hee! No. It's just... Nobody has ever tickled me THERE before.”
The queen is watching intently. Already, the lips are filling out, and when they begin to part, and the first tender tumescence begins to peep between them, she slows her movement, carefully ensuring that the chain just brushes the very tips of those tender inner petals.
“Oooh!” Fallopia groans appreciatively. Her voice is becoming deeper again, as a new and more womanly sensation begins to radiate into her belly. “Is this...? Oooh!”
“Is this what, dear?”
“Is this... Ah! ...Is this Depravity?”
The queen laughs indulgently. “Yes, dear. Just the very, very beginning of depravity.”
“But it's... Aaah! It's lovely! Why could I not have been taught this long ago? Ooh! Oh, your majesty, please teach me more of this Depravity! I wish to learn!”
The petals themselves are swelling now, warming, moistening, sweetly parting. The queen inhales deeply. Used as she is to Priscilla, with her tangy, seashore smell of wild, feral excitement, the queen is delighted now to sample such sweet, clean oyster-freshness. “I can see that you are a most attentive pupil.”
Raising her head for a moment, Fallopia assumes an expression of the utmost diligence and nods earnestly. In truth, these astonishing new sensations are so intoxicatingly sweet that it seems impossible to attend to anything else. “Oh yes,” she gasps. “I am wholly... Oh...”
The queen gives her pupil a radiant smile. Then, seeing a distinctive little ridge has formed, she draws the chain right up, and brushes it gently, first on one side, and then the other.
“Oh goodness! Oh, goodness...” The princess's hands begin to clutch at the edges of the mattress.
“Do you know what that is, that place where I'm tickling now?”
“No, but please... Please don't stop, it's — Oh! — It's lovely!”
Slowly but surely, the little prominence asserts itself, shyly disclosing its tiny, hidden treasure.
“I think... I really think...” The princess has raised her head once more from the pillow, and her eyes are pleading. “I really think I could take a little more...”
“More?” Teasingly, the queen withdraws the tiny golden chain. “You would learn more, already?”
Again, the silent nod, the delicately bitten lower lip.
“Then, my dear, more you shall learn!” The queen lifts the chain into a loop, and begins to drop its doubled weight upon the hood of the princess's straining clitoris. Each time she does so, she elicits a delighted, surprised gasp, as if each rush of sensation is a fresh and diverting novelty. “Have you never discovered this before, h'm? Never touched?”
“No, not ever. Why — Ah! — Why, it's lovely! Please, I beg you, again! — Ahh!”
“Do you know what this is, child, this thing that I am touching?”
“No, but please, ma'am, touch it again! — Aah!” The princess's head falls back, her shoulders still raised, so that her throat is sweetly extended. Her hips are beginning to move lasciviously – seeking, whenever the chain touches, to intensify the contact.
“Within this little ridge of flesh that I'm stroking now...”
“Oh, again, please! — Ahh! — Again and again!” Princess Fallopia extends her arms above her head and stretches herself luxuriously, the wanton movement of her hips now betraying the inner rhythms so inexorably set in motion by these painstakingly gentle, insinuating touches.
”...There dwells the most sensitive organ of all your royal person, and to touch it is to give such bliss...”
“O, then, touch it, your majesty, touch it, I beg you!”
“But no, dear child, for it is too sensitive, and even this chain, fine though it is, would cause you terrible pain. No, there is but one thing that can touch it directly, and give sensations of the most sublime decadence...”
At that moment, they are interrupted by a quiet knocking at the door.
“Five minutes, Priscilla! Just five more minutes!” calls the queen.
“Very good, ma'am,” comes the muffled reply.
The queen stiffens, listening attentively. After a few moments, “Priscilla?” she calls, as if admonishing a disobedient daughter.
When it comes, Priscilla's response is grudging: “Yes, ma'am?”
“Don't eavesdrop. Go back and wait.”
From beyond the door, there is an audible sigh. “Yes, ma'am.”
Again the queen waits, until she hears the padding footsteps retreat, and the door to her own chamber close. Then, she turns back to her young pupil, who is writhing impatiently upon the bed, her eyes brilliant with desire.
“Oh, why could Nanny not have done it this way, instead of with those great, rough fingers of hers?”
“Does my little chain please you, child?”
“More than words can say! Oh, how I wish I could have one like it! Do you think, perhaps, that I could borrow it from time to time?”
The queen laughs indulgently. “So... You aspire to practise the decadent arts?”
“Yes... I feel that I... have some natural affinity for them. I think that, if given the opportunity to perfect my skills, and widen my experience, I might have a great deal to offer a prospective —”
“Splendid, splendid,” the queen interrupts her, “A taste for decadence well befits a real princess. Now, dear, we mustn't waste time chatting, pleasant though it is. Although I can see we are well on the way, you aren't quite fully open yet.”
“Does that mean you're going to have to do it some more? Oh, goody!”
“Now just try to relax, dear...”
Again and again, the queen allows the tiny chain to cascade over the straining, tender, tingling flesh, until in mounting desperation the princess grasps her majesty's wrist with surprising force.
“Faster, your majesty... Faster, I beg you!”
But by now, the artful, delicate touches have accomplished their task: the intimate flower is fully distended, the lips wide-parted — and yes: all is well.
The queen stills her hand once more. “You are indeed a virgin.”
“But of course.” Fallopia sounds somewhat exasperated. “But please, I beg you, don't stop now... I think something's about to happen inside me...”
“What, child?”
“I don't know, but I think I want it to...”
But before the queen can respond, there is a gentle knock at the door.
“Come in!”
And into the room pads Priscilla, lithe on velvet feet, and in her hand, the jewelled sceptre of the queens of Taxavenia.
Fallopia looks up, curious and now a little afraid. “What... what's that?”
“It's nothing to be afraid of, dear,” the queen reassures her. “It's our royal sceptre.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“We're going to find out just how sensitive you are, my dear. And if, as I now believe, you truly are a real princess, then this will be a night of extraordinary delight, a delight of which you have never dreamed.”
Fallopia's misgiving transforms into eagerness. “Is it more Decadence?”
“Yes, child. Decadence to a degree, and in a form, to which only a true princess may aspire.”
Fallopia's head falls back on to the soft pillow, and a lazy smile appears upon her beautiful, ruby lips. But then, with a slight frown, she raises her head again. “But what if I were false? What then?”
“Then, my dear...” – The queen gestures meanwhile to Priscilla – ”...you would experience absolutely nothing, save what is in your dreams.”
Priscilla approaches the bed now with a heavy silken eiderdown.
“Now, dear,” the queen directs, “kindly place your arms by your sides, and part your legs widely. Just so. Good girl!”
Carefully, the two women place the eiderdown over the princess, folding it close about her limbs and body, so that it is pressed tight about her on every side.
“Cosy?” asks the queen.
“Mmmm,” comes the answer. Fallopia has never been naked in bed before, and it is remarkably comfortable. She gives a tiny wriggle. The silk seems to tingle against her skin. “This is nice,” she murmurs.
The queen laughs softly.
Then, to the princess's surprise, another eiderdown is produced, and this, too, is pressed tight around the first. And then, to her growing astonishment, another, and another, and another, until the sheer weight of the eiderdowns makes it almost impossible to move.
“How many more?” she asks in disbelief.
“Only ten,” comes the calm reply.
Carefully, tenderly, the queen and her feline consort lower quilt after quilt upon the bed, until Fallopia becomes certain that she is hopelessly trapped. And yet the weight is not crushing: somehow, after the first eight or nine quilts, the weight is so spread that it is not oppressive. Rather, it is as if she were back in her mother's womb. “It's quite cosy, actually,” she murmurs. “I don't think I can move a muscle.”
Priscilla laughs quietly. “Couldn't I just —?”
But the queen cuts her short. “Absolutely not! Not another word, now! Come, the mattress!
“The mattress?” Uselessly, Fallopia cranes her neck – the only thing she can move now is her head, but she can see nothing because of the mountain of quilts bearing down upon her.
And yes, sure enough, with some puffing and panting, the queen and her consort carefully lower a whole feather mattress on top of the quilts. Fallopia feels a slight increase in pressure. But she can still wiggle her fingers and toes a little.
“Now,” the queen says in quiet triumph, “Now the velvet cushion!”
Fallopia feels a slight thump as something further is placed on top of the mattress.
“Fallopia?”
The princess turns her head to her left, and sees the queen kneeling beside the bed, looking into her eyes.
“In a moment, I shall place my royal sceptre upon the velvet cushion. Then we shall leave you. If, in the morning, the sceptre has been dislodged from the cushion – and trust me, I shall know if it has – then you will have failed the test. Do you understand?”
Fallopia nods. She is feeling weary now, and in this wonderful, warm, soft cocoon, very ready for sleep.
“Then I wish you good night.” And with that, the queen is gone.
Vaguely, she feels a movement on the mountain of bedding above her.
“There it is! Perfect!” she hears the queen say, in quiet satisfaction.
She hears Priscilla speaking in an undertone, and the queen's soft response: “Very well, but only a little one.”
Suddenly, close to her ear, a musical contralto, infinitely sensuous: “Sweet princess!”
Fallopia turns her head in the direction of the voice, and sees Priscilla's slightly mocking smile, the burning intensity in her eyes, the lush beauty of those dark red lips. And then they open, and a long, pink tongue snakes around them, licking slowly. Fallopia is fascinated: she never dreamed before how beautiful a woman's tongue could be. And then, in a moment, Priscilla's lips are on her own, kissing, caressing, softly pressing; and then, between them, that tongue comes, burning on her lips a delectable sensation, dancing and tingling until the princess cannot repress a moan of rapture. Never before has she been kissed like this, and it sends delicious ripples down, down, deep into her belly.
And then, too, Priscilla is gone.
“Don't forget to turn it on!” — this from Priscilla, now apparently near the door of the chamber. Fallopia hears a click, and a quiet hum; then the light is extinguished, the door closes, and she is alone.
It is cosy, deliciously cosy. Fallopia closes her eyes, and composes herself for sleep.
Next door, whispering, Priscilla pleads with her royal mistress. “O ma'am, please! You know nothing will happen for ages, if it ever will... Stroke me, please stroke me!”
Sighing, her majesty reclines on the big ottoman and opens her arms to receive her much loved, and very amorous, pet.
Perhaps it is the very oddness of her situation, but Fallopia finds sleep unexpectedly elusive. Her lips still tingle from Priscilla's kiss, its radiance still suffusing her core. To distract herself, she recalls fragments of the dinner-table conversation; and remembers, with a renewed fluttering around her kidneys, Priscilla's extraordinary lithe beauty as she reached over the table to set out the dishes, the swell of the velvet-clad breast. Gradually, she drifts into slumber, her mind full of images of Priscilla reaching, bending, pointing, dancing, crawling...
For a moment, she is summoned from her doze by a woman's cry, coming from somewhere nearby. It is a quiet scream, suggesting frustration or annoyance. She listens for a moment, but there is no further sound, save that of the quiet hum of the sceptre, high on top of the mountain of bedclothes.
And now, roused from slumber, she is suddenly aware of a tension in her breasts, a curiously heightened sensitivity. It is as if the silk of the eiderdown were not merely tight-moulded to her, but gently caressing her skin, arousing a strange and rather delightful tingling sensation. She feels her nipples tighten; and as they do, so the tingling intensifies. “Mmmm...” she murmurs, stretching herself as much as she can under the weight of the bedding. She would like to be able to stretch her arms above her head, but that is quite impossible. Still, this lovely tingling, tickling feeling on her breasts is extraordinarily pleasant – so much so, that she wonders why she had not been so aware of it before. And gradually, gradually, the pleasure becomes a visceral warmth that seems to flood throughout her body.
Again she sees in her mind's eye Priscilla's perfect form, tall and sinuous, feline in its skin-tight black velvet. But now, in her fancy, she sees a blade at the neck, a gleaming, magic blade, touching lightly, just enough to cut the velvet, yet stopping just short of wounding the lustrous skin beneath. And as the image forms in her mind, so the blade travels down, down to the waist, and the black cloth parts, to reveal...
Fallopia feels the blade within her own body, moving in unison with the blade in her mind's vision, yet cutting deeper; and in its path not pain, but a piercing sweetness, plunging down into her belly. It is as if, in the centre of her body, a corridor of pleasure has opened up. Unbidden, her body strives to move, to dance, wrestling against the weight of the bedclothes to express its new-found joy. But if the body is trapped, Fallopia's mind runs free: she is running, flying, swirling, her arms carving the air as a swimmer's cleave the water, the wind in her hair, tumbling and leaping and laughing like a fish in a fountain. And in her vision, Priscilla too is now naked to the waist, her breasts free, her firm belly flexing and her long arms caressing the air as she, too, joins in the ecstatic, weightless dance.
“Wake up, Priscilla, dear, wake up...” her majesty murmurs, giving her pet a nudge.
“Mmm? Uhh...” Priscilla struggles to sit up.
“Time you went to bed, my love. But first... just listen.”
“What?”
“Just listen. Put your ear to the wall.”
Rousing herself, Priscilla does so. “She's moaning,” she whispers after a short while.
The queen nods, her face alight with happiness. “I think we've found her at last – don't you, pet?”
Priscilla answers with a sleepy, but equally delighted smile. “Then if we have found her, why do you not come to bed too? Let me pamper you, dear Queenie!”
“No... no... she will not sleep this night, and nor shall I.”
“But why? We know now. What more is there?”
“Priscilla, dear, you forget. I too was once tested like this. I still remember how it was: the endless agony, and the never wanting it to end; the fear that I would die, yet wanting that sweet death with all my heart. Every time is precious: but this first time, most precious of all.”
“But won't you... how will you...?”
“Dearest, I can wait. At dawn, when I go in to her, and find her, warm, wet and utterly exhausted... That is what I am waiting for now. And after that, while she sleeps... I shall need you then, my pet, and shall want you rested and refreshed.”
Reluctantly, Priscilla takes her leave, to sleep alone in the queen's bed.
By this time, Fallopia's fountain has become a fountain of tiny jewelled droplets, flashing diamond refractions in all colours of the rainbow. They swirl everywhere – between her toes, under her arms, but particularly, most particularly, around her breasts, and in that wonderful place between her thighs where the queen had so artfully tickled and tickled her with that marvellous golden chain, arousing such an astonishingly delightful tingling and throbbing.
But now, gradually, the fountain seems to be shrinking, and as it shrinks, the colours become ever more dazzling. And suddenly, all the prickling, swirling pleasure begins to focus and centre itself right there, in that one place. Still the fountain contracts, and as it does so, the sensation intensifies, until it is suddenly unbearable, and the fountain is only a tiny star, a pinpoint of searing, brilliant light. Yes, this is pain now: real, agonizing, insupportable pain. Fallopia whips her head from side to side in desperation: she needs to writhe and jerk, and her muscles try, with all their strength; but the weight of the bedding keeps her quite still. A moment ago, she was panting, deep and fast; but though her lungs are full to bursting, yet her breath strains from her throat as though the weight of the world were crushing her.
Even through the wall, the queen hears the explosive “Gaaah!” as the dam bursts; and as the contractions begin, Fallopia is submerged by wave after wave of delectable thrills that radiate from her centre, up through her belly and down through her thighs, right down to the soles of her feet.
The queen smiles as she hears Fallopia's exhausted moans of delight. “One!” she says in triumph. “There, poor thing, the first is always the hardest. Now you know what's coming, it won't be so difficult...”
Before long, Fallopia is engulfed in blissful peace, and nearing sleep, she imagines herself snug in the warm, wet cavern of Priscilla's mouth. But then Priscilla begins to move her tongue, and Fallopia is suddenly wide awake once more: it is the fountain-feeling again, that wonderful swirly all-over caress as the heavy silk presses in all around her, gently vibrating. But this time, it is as if she is a thousand times more sensitive, and whatever part of her body she thinks of, there is the same swarming, swirling caress. And yes, it is in her breasts, too, and in that wonderful, wonderful place, and yes, it is intensifying once more. It is all going to happen again... and again...
The minutes pass; an hour passes... and next door, the old queen counts. Even after so many repetitions, there is something electrifying about that first, whispered cry of “Yesss!” as the increasingly abandoned Fallopia senses the first onset of yet another glorious tidal wave; and if the young princess had at first been an ungainly surf-rider, fearing at any moment to drown in the intoxicating waters, now she seems to leap in exhilaration from peak to peak like an accomplished sportswoman, welcoming each new challenge and rising to it with grace and mastery: “Yes, Yes, Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah... Who-o-oa!” And then laughing weakly at how ridiculously easy it all is.
“Fifteen,” mutters the old queen. She looks at her watch. Two hours till dawn. Surely those batteries cannot hold out much longer? She puts her ear close to the wall. She can still hear the hum, but even as she listens, its pitch descends... descends... lower and lower, until finally it trails off into silence.
“Now,” she thinks, “will the blessed girl fall asleep, or will she not?”
For a few minutes, Fallopia does indeed sleep; but visions of Priscilla's tongue seem to lick her awake; and every time this happens, Fallopia becomes increasingly aware of the tingling and throbbing coming from that mysterious little place between her thighs. “If only I could reach it!” she mutters to herself. But the enormous weight of all the eiderdowns, and the mattress, make any movement impossible. With a little groan, Fallopia tries to think of something else. Yes: an adorable puppy, a little black puppy — no, a white puppy, and definitely not a cat — no, nothing like that black velvet suit, so beautifully tight — “Damn!” Another try: think Puppy... Those puppy eyes, that lovely pink puppy-dog tongue, that long, pointed tongue, those red, red lips...
“Damn!” Fallopia whimpers, almost crying. The tingling has become a burning. It maddens her. “I've got... to... try...”
And on the other side of the wall, the queen hears the grunting – definitely now the grunts of effort, frustrated, angry effort – and then... Oh no... Not tears, surely? Aching, the queen leans forward for a moment: any change of position is welcome. She sighs and shakes her head. “Dear, dear...” she murmurs. But then, she hears more grunting, even angrier and more frustrated than before. She smiles. “That's my girl!”
Progress is agonizingly slow, and Fallopia is bathed in perspiration, but undeniable progress has been made. She has managed to work her fingers almost all the way over her thigh now, and if she can only rest and regather her strength, she may just be able to draw that arm up enough... She opens her mouth wide, cooling herself as a dog might, drawing in lungfuls of the cold air, extending her tongue; and the thought of Priscilla doing the same gives her added zeal in her task – that, and the renewed, maddening burning in her crotch. “Perhaps if I try to strain myself upwards, and then suddenly relax...” One try... yes, that definitely seems to be working. Just a couple more... Again... Again...
Victory! She can feel it beneath her finger now, this infuriating little thing that will not let her rest. Tentatively, she explores it. “It's a bit like... It's a bit like a pea,” she thinks to herself. “Just a little pea. But it's mighty sensitive. Now, what on earth can I do...?” Too much pressure is very uncomfortable, especially near the tip. Perhaps a little further up? Aaah, that's nicer. Yes, just a little rocking motion – that seems to get rid of the incessant tingling. What a relief! Blessed relief!
Oh, and something else, too. — Actually, this feels rather nice. — In fact, it feels rather as if...
The queen has been literally on the edge of her chair for the past ten minutes, in an agony of suspense. Will she make it? Or has the exhausted princess lapsed into defeated slumber? But then, just when she is about to yield to despair, she hears a moan through the wall. It is difficult to hear: it is only a quiet little moan; but it had an optimistic, rising note to it. She shuffles herself a little closer to the wall and presses her ear hard to it. Yes: another, louder “Ooh...” – and another, each rising a little higher, and a little louder than the last! Forgetting her tiredness, the old queen clutches her fists in victory. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” She bounces upon her chair in delight. “That's my future daughter-in-law!” And from the room next door, she hears the soft, languorous sigh of victory.
The minutes pass... and the hours pass... and the old queen counts...
Soon, it will be dawn...
“Hahaha!” she chuckles, hearing yet another happy sigh from the princess's bed-chamber. “Twenty-one today! There! Today's young have so much stamina!” She clutches her arms round herself. Soon, it will be time to bring this happy episode to a conclusion. “And as for you, my dear,” she says, turning to the wall once more and addressing an imaginary Fallopia, “the gold chain of decadence lies light around your neck... But however thin it is, and however fine, never will you be able to cast it off.”
“Come on, puss,” her majesty croons into Priscilla's ear. “Wakey wakey!”
Priscilla's eyes flutter open. “Huh?”
The queen answers her only with a smile; but it is a smile of radiant happiness.
“What?” Priscilla suspects, but dares not allow herself to hope.
“You awake?”
“Mmm.”
“Then get up, lazybones, and fetch the Champagne.”
“Champagne?”
“We've only time for half a bottle. Then we'd better go and survey the wreckage. Something tells me our lovely princess will need a bath.”
Lady Priscilla looks into her mistress's smile, and wriggles deliciously. “Oh goody!”
“Now, puss!” Her majesty shakes an admonitory finger. “You're not to play with her, d'you hear?”
“But she's such a pretty little thing...”
“Maybe. But you're my pussy-cat, and don't you forget it!”
“Yes, ma'am...” Priscilla yawns.
Priscilla's meek response surprises the queen. “Are you tired, puss?”
“Well, dear, it was a very late night, and it is a very early morning...”
“I know, love. We'll have an early night tonight, I promise. Now scamper along and bring us that nice Champagne.”
Somewhat restored by her bath, and none the worse for the personal attention of the lovely Lady Cummings-Knightley, Her Royal Highness Princess Fallopia is almost chirpy at breakfast.
The old king looks up from his newspaper. “Well, m'dear, how did you sleep?”
“Why, thank you for asking, your majesty,” she replies, glancing with annoyance at her hostess, who is burping quietly into an ornate lace handkerchief. “I regret to say that I slept extremely ill. However –” and here, she lets out a gusty sigh – “we princesses are accustomed to take the rough with the smooth, and not complain.”
“Ha-rrhumph!” his majesty coughs approvingly, “Quite right, m'dear, quite right.” And, thinking of nothing further to say, he resumes his intent study of the Financial Section.
The queen gives Fallopia an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry if I failed to enquire after your welfare, my dear child. But you must remember that I, too, was a princess once. And I do know that with the rough, one finds one must take a little smooth, h'm?” She is gratified to see the princess blush. “Well, now, I'm wondering if you would be agreeable to the little matter of marrying our idiot boy. H'm?”
Moodily, Princess Fallopia spears a devilled kidney. “Well...” she says thoughtfully, “I know it's what my parents have always wanted...” She lets out a gloomy sigh. “It's not as if I haven't been raised from my earliest years to be a breeding machine to raise princes and princesses. I suppose it's my destiny.”
“I know, dear. Mine too. And fighting destiny is so very vulgar, don't you think?”
“Absolutely, ma'am. Nonetheless, there are just three things about my destiny that, if I were to have some sort of assurance, might make it easier for me to make up my mind.”
The queen's mouth twitches into a smile. “A girl who knows what she wants, eh? Very well. Speak.”
Fallopia makes a grimace, and gestures towards the king. “Perhaps it would be better if we were to discuss it afterwards, in private.”
“You worried about him? Dear, I've lived with him for thirty-one years. When he's reading the Financial Section, he's deaf. AREN'T YOU, DEAR?”
The princess looks at the queen. The queen looks at the princess. In the silence, the clock ticks loudly.
Eventually, Fallopia takes a breath. “Very well, then, your majesty. My first concern is that there would, of course, be absolutely no question of my having to sleep with...”
“The idiot boy? Come, come, my dear! What do you think his mistresses are for? What an absurd question! No, you need have no worries upon that point. — Next?”
“Um... If I were to agree, would there be any chance of my just possibly having a sceptre of my own? It needn't be a big one. It wouldn't need many jewels, but I just thought... Oh, I don't know, I thought it might be nice...”
But the queen is already nodding. “You cannot have mine, dear, but I'm sure that our crown jeweller can come up with something appropriate. So, yes to that one. And number three?”
“Well...” Fallopia blushes, and toys with her last remaining kidney, chasing it aimlessly round her plate. “I was wondering if I could be allowed to play with Lady Priscilla... sometimes.”
The queen sighs. “No, dear, I'm afraid that would be out of the question. She's much too rough for a slip of a girl like you. And in any case, she's mine.”
“Then I shall have to think about it.” Fallopia pouts.
Princesses are not supposed to pout, but after a sleepless night, some allowances must be made. Besides, even when she pouts, she is so absurdly charming that the queen cannot resist a silent laugh. “Come, dear, don't look so glum! I'm sure we can find you a lovely companion to play with. Don't you have any special friends, hmm?”
The queen is walking on safe ground: princesses are always surrounded by stunningly attractive, often rather dissolute young ladies who are ready to bask in the publicity, wealth and reflected glory of their illustrious girl-friend; even the least of the crumbs that fall from her table are likely to be presentable, marriageable and thrillingly rich.
And, from the princess's thoughtful expression, it is clear that a possible candidate has already crossed her mind. And if that were not proof enough, Fallopia's mouth twitches into a rather naughty smile. “I suppose that Clarissa Nicholas-Crouch is rather a slinky number,” she murmurs. “But she's terribly keen on the boys, I'm afraid.”
“Ha! Perfect!” The queen claps her hands. “And vice versa, I take it?”
Fallopia stares at the queen with slightly narrowed eyes. “She has test-driven a few.”
“Some good on the straights, some nice on bends, but nothing quite makes it in the all-round handling department?”
“Something like that, yes.” Fallopia allows herself a flicker of a grin.
The queen smacks the table with the flat of her hand. “Then she shall be your maid of honour. We need not concern ourselves with your education in the art of Decadence. Clarissa shall do that.”
Fallopia furrows her pretty brow. “But how?”
“Darling, in three weeks' time, Clarissa will be content to lick your pretty toes for an hour at a stretch. Think: Clarissa, naked, on her knees, a jewelled collar round her neck, her pretty pink tongue worshipping your toes, one by one. Can you imagine it?”
Fallopia lurches forward, her eyes glazed. She presses her clenched fists into her lap. “Oh my God!” she breathes. “Oh my God!”
The queen laughs softly. “Does the prospect please you?”
“But... But... It's impossible! — Do you really think so? How could it be done?”
Again, the queen lets out a tinkling, musical laugh. “Priscilla will teach her, dear: and when she has learned, Clarissa will teach you. — Of course, you and I will need to scrutinize their lessons intently. We wouldn't want the dear girls to exhaust themselves... prematurely, now, would we?”
Fallopia draws a deep breath. She seems preoccupied, as if in the grip of some powerful emotion. Then, she reaches for the queen's hand. “I think I shall be very happy here, mother.”
The queen takes the princess's hand, and squeezes it affectionately. “I think we see eye to eye, dear daughter.”
The old king coughs and looks up from his newspaper. “I say: the word is that Bancarolli stock is about to make another bloody great rise. Time to acquire another tranche, don't you think?”
Moral: Once a real princess discovers a pea under the mattress, nobody is going to get very much sleep.
Finis
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