'A woman, if she is a good stock, will become a wife. A wife is for procreating with. A man will lay with his wife - or rather lay on top of his wife - and they will become one for the purposes of reproduction. In modern parlance this is referred to as
sleeping with her
, though most nights husband and wife will sleep alone.'
It is the evening of my nineteenth birthday, and my mother is delivering to me a speech, one that she has clearly prepared, or that has been prepared for her. This is not a conversation. We don't converse. It is a speech, and I am its audience.
I brave a question.
'But, mama, how does a man become one with a woman.'
'He enters her, my child, via the hole between a wife's legs.'
The hole between my legs is small, I think, and surely could not fit the finger of man, or anything else for that matter. I dare not, however, ask another question.
This speech, I soon learn, is to prepare me for news of marriage. I am, apparently, to marry the newly crowned bachelor King. He is only eighteen, and truly should not have becomes King unmarried, however the death of his father came as a surprise to us all. I was, I am told, quickly found, though that isn't to say that it wasn't a goodly choice. Mama is very pleased; this will make our family far more important than it might have ever seemed possible.
So, I am to marry: I am to be laid down upon; I am to become one with a man - and the king of all men; I am to sleep alone.
All of this news has come as a complete shock to me.
Later in the evening, once I am in bed, alone, as I learn I will be most nights for the rest of my life, I consider the hole between my legs. It has, until now, served me no purpose, and eluded me terribly. I place my finger at the entrance to the hole, and imagine that it is the finger of the King, a man I have seen only once, and only briefly, and a man that I have been informed I will next week in Westminster Abbey on the day of our marriage.
I poke at the hole, repeatedly, the image of the King imprinted on my mind.
After a while I begin to notice myself becoming wet to the touch, and my finger is allowed entrance into myself, though for fear that I might lay with myself, become one with myself, and reproduce with myself, I stop, and go to sleep.
A few weeks later, I am, now a married woman, laying on the bed watching the King undress.
Between his legs, where I have a hole, I notice the King has a piece of flesh, protruding out, and flopping down. I wonder if that is what shall enter me, an unnerving feeling, seeing that it is much larger than a finger.
The King, my husband, kisses me. For the first time, I feel his tongue enter my mouth, tasting the port from dinner, and feeling his arm firmly clasped about my waist.
'Oh, Catherine', he moans through the kiss, his other hand lifting up my blouse and touching the bare skin of my stomach.
After a few moments he stops, and walks back slightly.
To my horror, the flesh between his legs I longer, and wider that it had been; no longer does it flop down but stands up and points towards me.
'Will you take off your clothes for me, my darling Queen.'
He is a very nice man, and has been so all day. I have been never naked with other person before. I hurried take off my clothes, excited for him to see my body, and for us to procreate and become one.
I see a mountain of curly black hairs from where his flesh protrudes, just like the mass of hair that I have covering my hole. He kneels down on the floor and places his head there. I wonder if he is to enter me with his tongue, like he just has entered my mouth, though instead he appears to be focusing his attention above the hole. The feeling is delightful, though totally alien to me.
Eventually, he stands up and climbs on top of me: I am ready to procreate. The pain is excruciating, and I notice again the wetness between my legs.
After what seem like an age of thrusting, at varying speeds, none of which I was informed of, he screams out, one hand firmly over one breast, and the other tightly pulling at my hair.
Is this it, I think; am I with child?
He lies next to me, and I place my hands between my legs, which are a little bloody - mama had told me that would happen - though the more dominate substance is a warm white one that leaks out of the hole.
I am rubbing my fingers together, with a little of the mixture on them, when my husband takes my fingers into his mouth, and sucks them clean.
'I love you,' he says to me, pulling me into his arms. He informs me of all of his plans, as King and as husband. He wishes for us to sleep together every night, though I know this to mean that he wishes to enter me every night, not to sleep with me - later I will learn that he actually means both; later I will learn a lot of things that mama didn't tell me; the King, it turns out, is far more romantically inclined than mama had supposed, to at least than she had told me. The evening quickly becomes my favourite part of the night.
The mound of flesh is called a cock, he tells me. I beg for it, regularly, whispering in his ear or shouting so the whole palace can hear, for him to stove his cock into my cunt - that's the name for my hole, he tells me. I learn so much new terminology.
The first time he places his cock in my mouth, I ask him if I can become pregnant that was as well, and he laughs at me. I enjoy suckling on his prick, taking it as far into my mouth as possible, leaning my head back and taking him passed the back of my throat, feeling him cum straight into me.
'I want all of you in all of me, all of the time, dear,' I say to him, one day. He places a finger on my arsehole and tells me that a man may fuck a woman there.
'Oh please, please, my King, fuck me there, put your prick in there.'
It is a very tight hole, and we spend hours cuddling with him moving his index finger into and out of my arsehole. It is a very different sensation, one that reminds me a little of the pain of our first night, though it is a pain I enjoyed.
He pulls the finger out, and I reach round to eagerly take it into my mouth, as I do with any part of him that has entered me. The taste is as I might have predicted, had I properly thought about it, though it does surprise me.
I similarly take his shit-covered cock into my mouth, once he has fucked my arse, gagging only a little from the taste.
In court one day, somebody asks me about my husband's mistresses, and I tell them that the King cannot have mistresses, because he always sleeps with me, every night and every morning, and as often as we can find throughout the day.
She is shocked to learn this, and asks if he does not get bored, though I quickly inform her of all the things we do together, and how he could not possible get bored from our ever-changing erotic repertoire, though I am suddenly anxious about the times when he is on business, and begin to imagine him fucking other women. I ask him that evening, and he is bitterly offended by the accusation. I worry that I have completely ruined our marriage, and plead for forgiveness.
'Darling, how could you think I would betray you like that?'
'I don't know, somebody in court asked me and then I just panicked.'
'When could I even have the time.'
'I know my sweet, I realised that, but it gnawed at me all day whilst you were with the Prime Minister.'
'I'm not fucking him if that's what you mean.'
It is terrible. We spend our first night apart - my first night ever in my bed, granted to me several months ago though unused until now. I am totally unable to sleep. I pleasure myself, as he has taught me to do for him, though I have never done so alone. I say pleasure, though of course no pleasure comes of it, and at two in the morning I crawl to his door, that which I might have stupidly called our door only hours earlier, and weep outside of it, begging him to let me in.
Eventually I must fall asleep there, for that is where he finds me, asleep on a pillow of tears. I wake to the feel of his lips on my cheek, and immediately recommence my crying despite his kindness to me.
'I think there is something that you can do that would allow me to forgive you,' I eventually tells me, once I have calmed down, dressed and accompanied him to breakfast. We breakfast alone, always, despite royal precedent; he likes to have me in the breakfast room.
'Yes, anything, please dearest.'
'I think, as punishment, I will indeed take a mistress.'
I am devastated by this news: our marriage is over, at least our modern, glorious, romantic marriage is over: I am to become the wife that my mother had described to me, that one that takes her husband's cock, ever couple of weeks, for biological reasons and spend the rest of her life alone, with her fucking court of miserable women who needlessly worry the Queen and lead her to destroy the only good thing in her life.
He can see that I am unhappy by this, and continues his decree.
'Though, unlike most men, I wish for you to watch as I fuck her.'
Is this better or worse? I actually don't know. On the one hand I have to witness the horrible thing, stopping me from ignoring it as I might attempt. Though on the other hand, I am a part of it, allowed into the process, and the infidelity becomes part of our marriage, instead of supercilious to it. What a dilemma.
'How should I watch it, dear, and where?'
'It will occur in my bed, and you shall watch it from a chair in the corner.'
'Will she do everything that I do? Will you do everything that we do?'
I am panicking. This definitely feels worse. I wonder, if I begged him, if he would let me go to my own room instead, though imagine what horror that would be, knowing how close I was to their fucking!
'Everything.'
'Ok,' I say, with all the courage I am able to muster. He walks over to me, and places a hand down my front and onto my breast. I feel him pinch my nipple, and crook my head into his arm, the warmth of our love starting to come back, however slowly and through whatever terrible means.
'What was the name of the person who convinced you?'
'Why, my love, that doesn't matter now surely.'
'I want to know so that I can banish her.'
I tell him, and he places his other hand softly around my throat. I push down on it, choking myself a little to reassure myself of the healing of our wound.
'Will we be ok?'
He tells me that we will.
'Can I suck your cock.'
