A Right Royal Roasting
By: Davi Mai
Tags: Erotica, Medieval

A small Kingdom somewhere in medieval Europe, oppressed under the reign of corrupt King “George the Grunter.”

Crash! Bang! Wallop!

The crash came from another crystal wine goblet bouncing over the edge of the feasting table and crashing to the stone floor. The bang was produced by the massive serving platter’s lid, jumping up a good six inches before banging back down, in place. The wallop was the sound of the King’s wobbly hips walloping into the servant girl’s bare arse cheeks, as he bent her over the table and took her from behind.

At the opposite end of the table, the Queen sat dressed in all her finery. She also wore her “I am not amused” expression. An ugly woman, even in royal regalia and makeup. She lifted her plate and glass clear of the seismic vibrations that threatened to send them flying with every thrust her husband delivered to the poor wench.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake George, will you finish already! What happened to that one-minute dip I got from your wick on our wedding night?” She yelled over the dented dishes and scattered serving spoons.

“Is this going to go on through dessert? It’s jelly tonight; I fear the wobbling will make me seasick. Do you even have that small sausage of yours in one of her holes? Or are you hopelessly humping her arse crack?”

Another piece of cutlery jumped clear of the ruckus and flew towards one of the royal dogs lounging in front of the hearth, coming close to skewering the canine’s testicles.

“Nearly….there.” The King grunted, all squinty eyed and red-faced as he tried to overcome the drooping effects of a dozen goblets of wine. His rotund belly kept getting in the way, making his drunken efforts even more inept.

“Well thank God for that, is all I can say,” the Queen took a sip of her wine and smacked her thin lips, “if you take much longer the wretched waif will drown, seeing as how she’s ended up face down in your soup. Although I should think she’d find drowning a blessed relief!”

A bubbling, burbling sound confirmed the Queen’s observation. The serving girl, skirts pushed up over her back and face sunk halfway into a deep bowl, coughed gouts of beetroot soup across the table and took a gasping breath to replace the liquid with far more useful oxygen. All the while being jiggered in the privates by a semi-flaccid royal penis.

The Queen, contrary to her last statement, had more to say.

“I don’t see why you always feel the need to undertake this depressing display of feckless fucking during our dinner. Can we not feast in peace at least one night a week?”

“Oomph!!” The King found release with one last thrust and raised his double chin to the roof in triumph and relief. When his pleasure and his porcine grunting had subsided, he mounted his usual weak defence, with much less conviction than he’d displayed when mounting the staff.

“I couldn’t help it; she showed me her tits when she served the bread.” He lamented, withdrawing his royal sword from the girl. Or at least that’s what he liked to call it. Right now, it looked more like a royal thimble.

The King delivered a hearty smack to the bare buttocks in front of him. The serving girl took that as her cue to stand up, straighten her skirts and perform a half respectable curtsey. Soup dribbled from her face and streaked her messy blonde hair. The King’s paltry climax dribbled down her throbbing thighs.

“Will that be all your highness?” She enquired in a tone that suggested the course she had just served him was the roast duck, now splattered down her front, not the “pussy du jour” he had devoured.

The King was making a half-hearted attempt to straighten his dining robes, covering up the shrunken royal member and searching the debris on the table for the last of the wine. “Yes, that will be all… err…. Anna isn’t it?” He dismissed her, and she limped away to the kitchens.

“And anyway,” he declared to his Queen, “it’s not like you can control yourself. The fire is going out because you’ve had that page under the table since the entrée.”

The ornate hearth set into one wall of the feasting hall did only harbour glowing embers by now. Two hunting dogs had been edging closer to it as the warmth diminished. The Queen returned her plate and goblet to the now still surface of the table and lifted the tablecloth to check on proceedings down below.

“Yes well, I have to seek my own treats, given that you can no longer serve me any. At least I’m not making little Tim here spit the second course halfway across the room!” She reached down and tapped the head of the small rag-clothed boy that knelt between her open legs. A cherubic face looked up for approval, nose and chin rubbed red raw from wet friction.

“Back to work young man,” the Queen admonished, pushing the page boy’s head back down. She scooted her bottom forward on the chair to smother him with a face full of flange. Tim’s head set about a rhythmic bobbing motion as he took up his licking again.

“Damnation, you deviant bitch,” the King declared as if it was a royal pronouncement. “That lad is so small I fear we may lose him up that mammoth minge of yours.”

The Queen was unruffled. “A tongue is a tongue my Royal Uselessness, and the younger tongues can lick faster.”

The King drained the wine and searched for the bell to summon more. “Anyway, you’re the one that needs to finish,” he grumbled, “so the little blighter can put more wood on the fire before it goes as cold and miserable as your southern regions!” And with that, he let out an almighty belch.

Grabbing a roast duck’s leg from one of the surviving dishes, he lifted his end of the tablecloth and lobbed it down to the long-suffering boy underneath.

“Here lad, shove that up her while you’re at it. That should hurry things along. She loves a good duck fucking!” The King bellowed with laughter, rocking back on his chair.

Too far back.

The chair and King crashed down onto the hewn stone floor. His skull cracked, and his laugh cut abruptly short. A shocked intake of winded breath would be his last. The two dogs raised their heads at this new commotion but were not loyal enough to bother with a closer inspection. Licking their own balls seemed far more important.

The Queen was also too busy to worry, having just felt Tim penetrate her with the piece of poultry. She gripped the sides of her chair and presented her lower lips to consume two delightful dishes; leg of duck and face of boy. He too would have difficulty breathing. But he needn’t have worried; he’d done his job well.

As the King was going, the Queen was coming.

All concern for her husband’s wellbeing disappeared in her moment of climax, if there had been any concern at all. Transfixed, trembling thighs clamping shut against the boy’s ears, her ugly head thrown back, emitting a long guttural moan.

Such was her indulgence; she did not notice a dishevelled Anna return to the room, this time from behind her. Nor did she flinch until after the sharp carving knife sliced through her exposed, wrinkled, neck.

Against all the laws of chronology, the Queen came as she went.

Arterial blood spurted across the table, achieving the same distance the soup had from the other end. The two red stains met in the middle.

Anna helped young Tim up from under the table, and the two of them stood there in their dirty rags, staring at the expired monarchs. The fat King, stone-cold dead, still seated in his upturned chair. His robes were open, revealing under his belly a shrivelled dick looking more like one of the pickles fallen from the table. It lay on its side, as if in surrender.

The Queen had assumed Anna’s previous face-down position in her plate, the last pumps of blood from her neck pooling across the table. Her arse somehow clung to the edge of the wooden chair. But poultry fat and royal pussy juice had slickened the silver birch, and the chair slipped out from under her. Broad buttocks hit the floor with a wet thump, and her body keeled over backwards, legs spread as if in childbirth.

Anna leaned forward and reached down into the sodden thicket between the Queen’s legs. With a tug, like an expert midwife, she facilitated the delivery of a lone leg. It produced a slurping, sucking sound as the corpse reluctantly released it.

“Congratulations, it’s a duck!” she declared, then passed the leg to Tim who took a well-earned bite, grinned up at her, and spoke through his mouthful.

“Waste not, want not, right?”

Anna giggled and tousled his hair.

“Let’s find that jelly. I think there’ll be plenty to go around now.”

Holding hands, they wandered back to the kitchens to deliver the good news.