My treatment is something of a "fractured fairy tale"--think Steeleye Span meets Mel Brooks. The character of the king owes a lot to Dom Deluise' Caesar and Brooks' own lecherous "It's good to be the king" Louis XVI in History of the World Part 1, with an extra dash of Ron-Jeremy sleaze for good measure and fun.
While the story is humorous, it is not meant to make light of rape, but to celebrate the intelligence, fortitude and determination of a woman who refuses to be a victim.
Enjoy!
TAS
Royally Screwed
The
great oaken doors of the King’s High Court were thrown open with a resounding
boom. A fair young damsel stood in the breach, breathless and flushed, her
comely bosom heaving for all the court to behold—and boy! Were they ever beholding!
“Don’t
just stand there gawping at my jugs like a bunch of dirty old men,” she cried, “I
would have word with His Majesty—actually, two or three hundred words if you
want to get technical about it—for I have been wrongéd, and that full sore.”
The
herald scratched his head. The king’s guardsman scratched something else. No
one moved to aid the damsel, whose hair was red as blazing fire, with eyes as
green as the emeralds that adorned the king’s scepter. She was well formed with
a noble bearing despite the gnarly disarray of her simple peasant’s bodice,
straight of stature, long of neck, and most pleasingly ample of ass. Well and
truly stackéd was the term that came most easily to the minds of the horny courtiers
milling about the hall, though nobody actually had the stones to say it out
loud.
“Why
are you all just standing there?” she cried, “Do I have to spell it out for you?
One of you fine upstanding gentlemen thought he could get away with plunder and
despoilment—that’s rape to you, numbnutses!
So where’s the outrage? Which one of you fuckmented shitjizzles is going
to let me in to see the king? Convey me to the Presence this instant, for I
would have justice done anon.”
After
she had explained the definition of ‘anon’ to the guards, the girl was ushered
before His Majesty, who was busy being measured for a new codpiece. “Who the
hell are you?” he asked.
“If
it please your Majesty,” she said, bowing low from the waist, “My name is
Rosoridy-Anne, the daughter of a humble blacksmith.”
“What lovely introductions,” drooled the king, dismissing the tailor and his
assistants with a rude gesture. “No, no! Don’t straighten up just yet, my
dear.”
“As
you command, Sire.” said Rosoridy-Anne, knowing how these things work.
“Perfect!
Mmmm! Now . . . what would you have of us, child?” said the king in a
particularly paternalistic tone of voice, nodding slyly at the highly stylized,
ludicrously exaggerated phallic totem between his legs, “As you can see, we
have much to occupy our attention.”
Exasperated,
the damsel heaved a heavy sigh, which took everybody else’s breath away. “If it
please Your Majesty,” she began again, “I have been robbed, and robbéd full
clean—or should I say robbéd full dirty?—by one of your own chancellors.”
“Truly?
And, this man of mine, has he stolen your horse? Nabbed your purse? Snitched
your clothes while you were bathing in the river?”
“No,
Sire, none of the above,” she said, “He’s taken something a bit more . . . personal. Something I’m not likely to
replace.”
“What?
Like your class ring?”
“A
bit more personal than that, Sire.”
“Uhhhh.”
The king scratched his head, which seemed to be much in fashion at court that
season.
“Is
everybody thick around here?” she cried, stamping her foot, “He’s robbed me of
my freakin’ maidenhead! You know: my hymen, my cherry, my virgin’s knot, my
maidenhood, my chastity, my virtue! Just took it without asking; burst in
through the front gate like a bandit in the night, and now it’s gone, and
another I cannot find . . .”
“So,”
said the king, “you’re telling us that this guy—”
“Raped
me. Yes! Hello??? Do I have to spell it out for you too, Your Grace?”
“Probably,”
he said mildly, “We usually have servants to do that for us. In any case,
honey, why don’t you sit here on the royal lap so we might console you as you
tell us all about it.”
“I’ll
pass on the pervy lap-sitting, if Your Majesty will pardon me for the nonce,”
said Rosoridy-Anne with another breathtaking bow, “Yet I will tell you what
happened.”
“Very
well,” the king could barely mask his disappointment, for the girl’s beauty was
truly quite distracting. “Go ahead then.”
“OK,”
said Rosoridy-Anne, “So, there I was in
the forest, minding my own business, reading Le Morte d’Arthur, when this doofus comes up behind me. Asks me
what I’m reading, never mind that he’s standing in my light. So I say ‘Malory’
and he thinks that’s my name. Then he wants to know what the book’s about. So I
give him the CliffsNotes version, hoping he’ll get bored and go away. No such
luck; he just stands there, looking down my dress, totally eye-banging my foobs
like a teenaged creep. Finally, I turn around and say ‘Was there something you
wanted?’ and he says ‘Hey girl! Nice rack! Wanna fuck?’And I say ‘Whoa! Back up
the non-sequitur cart, there, Jack!’ And he says ‘Who’s this Jack guy?’ And I
say ‘Jack’s what you know, dipwad,’ and then he says ‘So, was that, like, a
yes?’ and I say ‘No, that was, like, a no; in fact, it was most definitely a
no. I am clearly and unequivocally refusing to offer consent.'
“Apparently
the guy couldn’t take a hint even if you dropped Canterbury cathedral on his
balls with it. Apparently he also missed a lot of school because he didn’t seem
to understand the whole concept of taking no for an answer—or personal hygiene
for that matter. Grubby little spunk-trumpet keeps going on about how he’s some
big high muckety- muck at the king’s high court. Says he’s called Erwilian, like
I can’t figure out that his name is really Willie. Claims to be the royal
forester, but I figure he’s nothing but a glorified gardener, probably an
assistant glorified gardener at that. Says I should be flattered to let him pop
my cherry, like I’m just another airheaded noble-title-groupie who’ll get all
wet in the smallclothes being that close to some pompous puffed-up cum-guzzler
from court—no offense, Your Majesty. But hey! We all know poor blacksmiths’
daughters are functionally illiterate bimbos who wouldn’t know Latin unless it
was in the Biblical sense with a landing party from the Armada. I am so fucking
sick of these bullshit sexist, classist stereotypes! Who perpetuates this
medieval crap anyway?”
“We
shall have that looked into,” said the king, “Perhaps appoint a Royal
Commission. Go on, my child.”
“Right.
So, before I can say ‘I’ve got pepper spray hidden in my cleavage,’ Mr.
Legend-in-his-own-mind has laid me down upon my back and askéd no man’s leave,
let alone mine. Says, ‘don’t worry, babe, I’m only gonna stick in the tip, then pull out
before I come’ as if that would make it alright. Has his way with me right
there upon the sward, all the while going on about how I was askin’ for it by
wearing such a provocatively low-cut dress, and being all come-hithery by
playing hard to get with my snooty nose in a literary novel. (You can’t win no
matter what you do!) Then he blows his wad inside me on purpose and tells me I
should feel honored because he’s the only son of some earl I never heard of
before. Sheesh! There’s thirty-five
seconds of my life I’ll never get back. Anyway, when it’s over, little Willie
says ‘It’s been nice knowing you,
slut!’ like he just made the cleverest pun in the whole history of bawdy comedy,
and rides off. I said “Oh no you don’t, fuckwit!” hiked up my skirts and ran
after the bastard as fast as I could.
“He
thought he’d lost me at the river. Said, ‘It’s too deep for you, bitch! No way
you’re getting across.’ But I waded through anyway, and kept after him. Seemed
like hours, chasing him through forest, field, and meadow, running up hill and
rolling down dale yada yada yada. Finally, tracked him here to the castle. Pretty
easy, actually; just had to follow the stank of entrenched male privilege.”
“So,”
said the king, “what is it that you ask of us?”
“Justice!”
cried Rosoridy-Anne.
“Tall
order,” replied His Majesty, “And we can pretty much guarantee you won’t like
your options.”
“Try
me,” said the damsel.
“If
only!” the old man leered.
“Focus,
Your Grace!”
“Oooo-kay, well, if he’s a married man, we’ll
hang him like a common criminal, take him down from the gibbet still alive, draw
and quarter him, and leave his arms, legs, and torso impaled on sharp stakes
for the ravens to feast upon in public view of all the realm—”
“I
like the sound of that,” she said.
“While,
you, my dear, being no longer a maiden, will be summarily packed off to a nunnery.”
“What?
That hardly seems fair.”
“If
you think that’s unfair, you’ll love
the second option,” the king hesitated slightly before going into detail,
“Uhhh, if . . . if he’s single, turns out the law says the two of you have to
get married.”
“Oh
gross!” she made a
finger-down-the-throat-to-induce-vomiting gesture, “I’ll castrate the jerk with
a rusty spoon on our wedding night, and force-feed him his giggle-berries for
breakfast!”
“Eeeew!”
the king shuddered, reflexively covering his own miniature set of crown jewels,
“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Rosoridy-Anne. In any case, I know
the guy you’re talking about. This Willie—Erwilian—is kind of a waste of skin
to tell you the God’s honest truth, but whatcha gonna do? He’s sort of fun at
parties; does this thing where he belches and farts the tune to Suner
is icumen in—totally hilarious, though I suppose you would have had to be
there—and besides, the Crown owes his dad, the earl, a fuck-ton of money—all
that dicing, whoring, and declaring war on our neighbors gets expensive pretty
fast.”
“So
what am I supposed to do?” cried the girl, “marry this rapacious asshat in
spite of the outrage he’s done me? Bear his insufferable, half-witted whelpling?
Play the devoted little housewife while he goes off to tomcat around with the
boys every other weeknight? That, or end up in a convent with a bunch of
bitter, dried up old hypocritical holier-than-thou hyper-puritanical
flesh-mortifying sadomasochists?”
“You
can say that again,” said the king, “No, actually, those are your choices.”
“Well,
no thank you!” the damsel held her head high, “This girl’s gonna have a life.”
“Speaking
of which, you sure you don’t want to have a sit-down on the royal lap?” asked
the king, hopefully, “We are rather taken by the cut of your jib.”
“No
one’s taking my jib anywhere, thank you very much,” Rosoridy-Anne spoke
defiantly.
“Have
a care!” said the king, “Jesus! Where have you been the last thirty-five
centuries? Slowly evolving in a cave? If His Royal Majesty says ‘shite’ unto
one of his subjects, said subject may reasonably ask only three questions;
‘when, where, and how much, Your Grace?’ And if we should command you to plant
that bodacious bahookie of yours upon the royal lap, than plant it there you
shall.”
“Are
you commanding me, then, Sire?”
“Let’s
just say that for right now we’re—I’m—asking nicely,” said the king.
“Well
. . .”
“Aw,
c’mon! Don’t be a drag! Be our queen if
only for the next fifteen minutes or so . . .”
“You
totally stole that from somebody, didn’t you?” she said.
“Busted,”
said the king, who seemed to have a deep and abiding fascination with all
things boob-related, “But you wouldn’t tell anybody, now, would you?”
“I
think we’re getting a bit off track here, Sire,” said Rosoridy-Anne, “What
about my problem?”
“Well,
we could probably have the guy hanged, drawn, quartered, and all that good
stuff. And maybe we could give the
Bishop a wink and a couple hundred sovereigns to fix the matter of your being
forced into the nunnery. But that still leaves us with two or three knotty
dilemmas—or dilemmi or dilemmae or whatever the fuck the plural of that word
is—problems! Let’s just say unsolved
problems. No matter what, the exchequer’s still going to owe the little jerk’s
daddy, and you can bet the service payments on all that debt will go right
through the roof once we’ve had the idiot son kacked, and who’s gonna get
blamed when inflation inevitably kicks in? Plus, we’ll have incurred additional
debt in the process of bribing His Excellency the Bishop, who just between you,
us, and the lamp post, is one of the
sickest degenerates you will ever meet. Man! The stories we could tell you involving
a flock of six black sheep, five male prostitutes, four call girls, three
French maids, two hermaphrodites, and a drag queen decked out like a partridge
in a pear tree!—good times! Good times! And, lastly, there’s the whole question
of what’s in it for me—I mean us, by which I mean me—you feel me, I mean us?”
“I
get it, You Majesty,” said Rosoridy-Anne, “In truth, I get it all too well. In
order to obtain justice after being sexually assaulted, abandoned, and
traumatized by one of your employees,
I must succumb to your lecherous advances, or choose from among two completely
odious and equally unpalatable options. I think I “feel” you quite accurately—and
I know when I’m being groped up the tailpipe. Seems like some things will never
change.”
“Hey!
Welcome to the Middle Ages,” said the king, patting his knee “We didn’t make
the rules—well, actually, we sort of did—but you know what we mean.”
“Ugggh!
Alright,” said Rosoridy-Anne, “But no funny stuff. No French kissing—I can
smell the eel-and-onion pastie on your breath from all the way over here! Keep
the grab-and-tickle above the waist—definitely no feely-meely below the navel.”
Reluctantly,
she crawled on to his lap, and bid him do whatever he fancied within the hard
limits she had outlined. He fondled her comely gamungas, and slipped a greasy
paw into her bodice to play with her ever-so perky nubinses. “Nice!” he
whistled, trying to sneak the other hand down on to her booteus maximus.
“Naughty,
naughty!” the damsel shooed his hand away, “Remember, Sire?”
“Oh
all right!” he sighed like a petulant
child, “But we’re definitely gonna suck one of those tits before this is over.”
“As
you wish, Sire,” said Rosoridy-Anne, unlacing her bodice partway. And for a
while the only sound in the chamber was that of the king’s gluttonous pie-hole,
smacking and slurping like a toddler at its wet nurse’s teat.
“So,
Your Grace,” she ventured meekly, “What do you know of Erwilian’s parents and
family?”
“Huh?
Oh, his mother died like two years ago; pneumonia or something incurable like
that we think—little sociopath’ll probably try to use that as an excuse for
what he did to you today—and the father? Handsome guy—nice full head of silver
hair, of which we are totally envious, by the way. Richer than God Almighty, of
course, and considered one of the most eligible widowers in the realm. Aside
from that, we don’t know much, for it is as we’ve said; we’ve got people to keep
track of these things for us.”
“Truly,
Sire? A rich, handsome widower, you say? And are his manners better than his
son’s?”
“Couldn’t tell ya,” said the king, belching
noxiously, “Would you mind shifting over
a little to the left, honey? That’s the ticket!”
“Your
Majesty,” the damsel cooed, “I might have a way to, as they say, kill several
birds with one stone.”
“Good
for you,” said the king, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I
mean, Sire, that I have a problem, and you have several, and perhaps there’s a
way we can solve them together, and both end up with something we want.”
“You
have our attention,” muttered the king, his mouth full of luscious freckled
dumpling. “Go on.”
“Well,”
she said, “I’d see the son well hanged ‘tis true; yet if the father’s well hung—”
“What?”
the king touched his new codpiece, “You mean?”
“Verily—that
is to say, yes,” Rosoridy-Anne replied, “if the earl is still vigorous, well-spoken,
wealthy as you say, and willing, chances are I’m already knocked up with his
true heir in any case.”
“You’re
totally insane!” the king laughed, “If we were thirty years younger, ten stone
lighter, still had all the royal hair,
and were single—”
“—You’d
nail me like a common ho,” said Rosoridy-Anne. “and we both know it. For, although
no ho I trough, common-born I am indeed, and such, alas, is the way of the
world. Yet, by all that’s just, the bun in my oven shall not pop out a common
one. I’m thinking more along the lines of a Kaiser roll . . .”
“You’re
right,” said the king, “we would definitely have tapped that back in the day. For
in truth, we really got around when we were a handsome young blade. But we see
where you’re going with this. It’s totally brill! You get justice for little
Willie’s outrage against you, yet still avoid the nunnery, becoming,
instead, a wealthy nobleman’s wife in a
single stroke. Chances are the guy won’t even miss the benighted little assclown
once he’s raven poop, and his lordship might even forgive a big chunk of the
debt we owe him just for us having introduced the two of you.”
“T’would
seem like a win-win, Your Grace,” said the damsel. “And—not to mix anachronistic metaphors
here—but the ball’s in your court.”
“Right!”
said the king, “Page! Call the earl of—whatever the hell he’s the earl of—into our
presence. There’s someone here we would have him meet.”
“Pardon,
Sire,” the little page piped up timidly, “Which earl do you mean? There are so
many here at court.”
“When,
where, and how much!” roared the king, “How many times do I have to tell you?
The earl of . . . oh! you know the one I mean, ya little snot! The tall one
with the good hair! Godiva! That’s the one. Lord Godiva, the Earl of
Pizzlethwaite—or is it Jizzleford?
Summon the schmuck to appear before us on the morrow, alright?”
“As
you command, Sire,” the page bowed stiffly and withdrew.
“We’ll
get you all dolled up for the occasion,” said the king, “bathed and scrubbed,
powdered and perfumed till your own mother wouldn’t recognize you from the
smell. Get your hair put up nice, and deck you out in all the dopest bling, a
total shitload of jewels, gems and pearls. And we shall find for you such a
dress as will turn the highest-born bitches in the realm all green with envy, whence
they’ll bewail their bravest finery as
naught but thrift-shop schmatta! Shit! One look at you and the earl’ll be
creaming his pantyhose, I guaran-damn-tee!”
“Mmm!
I like the sound of that, Your Majesty.”
“And
I love it when a plan comes together,” replied the sovereign, dandling the girl
upon his gout-ridden knee until her glorious jiggle bags began to do their
thing, bouncing up and down in the most enchanting way imaginable. “We’re of a
mind to name you royal counselor for this, my dear.”
“You
honor me, Sire,” said the girl, “even as you make me seasick.”
“So
what?” laughed the king, “Tomorrow you shall be known as Lady Godiva.”
“No
shit, Your Majesty,” Rosoridy-Anne smiled sweetly.
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