Saturday, July 11, 2015

Royally Screwed--a short story by TAS

This little story was inspired by a song from the British folk-rock group Steeleye Span, which you can listen to hereRoyal Forester tells the tale of a young woman who is raped by one Erwilian, an arrogant prick who boasts of the "immunity" his connections at court afford him. However, instead of lamenting the theft of her maidenhead, the woman pursues her rapist relentlessly, all the way to the king's high court where she demands justice for herself. This is the kind of strong, no-nonsense, ass-kicking heroine I like! 

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. 



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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