Heavy Is the Head

An ebony hand laid to rest on the royal blue ruffled of the queen regent.

"Will you be needing any assistance in these trying times, my queen?" warbled a dusky warmth from behind her. In reply, the queen reached up and wrapped her own dainty set of digits around the knobbled sausage-thick fingers comforting her.

"No. I have a kingdom to run now; my people will need me at my strongest. I cannot afford not to show my emotions - even the ones I bear most burdensome," spoke the yet-unsworn ruler in her most practiced impression of confidence. It was, however, an exercise in image. Those within earshot of what her majesty had to say in that moment would feel comforted by her resolve. It would be later that night, in the comfort and relative privacy of her chambers, that she would come to find out from her dark-skinned advisor and partner in political theatrics if their performance paid off.

"As you wish, my liege," intoned the dulcet voice from Gael. An award-winning performance capped off in true form. She would make a mental note to properly thank him for his exemplary measure of politicking.

The veritable stage for the careful application of political salve was as the queen, flanked by her barrel-chested, broad-shouldered advisors, stood amongst her subjects on day of melancholy. The trio were situated around the casket of the queen's recently deceased husband as a tinny mechanical whirring from the assortment of winches aided the descent of the coffin into the ground. A whirling cacophony of clouds overtop the sprawling expanse of interred royal corpses in the cemetery formed the setting. A bubbling rumble of threatening downpour from those slate-gray mammoths overhead set the soundtrack. Members of the common folk and the clergy alike would approach with their best somber expression, silently pay their respects to the former monarch, and pause to give their words to the widowed Queen Noémie. Political movers and shakers would linger longer than the commoners, speaking in the particular cadence of condolence that they so chose; some would opt for a sober, apologetic tone. Others, an uplifting and empowering choice of diction. Regardless of the approach, the posturing was all done in the name of getting in the good graces of the new grace to the country.

"I wish to leave as soon as we can, Beau," Noémie murmured into the ear of one of the towering pillars of men at her side. A nod, coupled with an affirming grunt, formulated Beau's response. Noémie wished to no longer serve as a political image-keeper. She had barely any time to properly pay her own respects to her departed lover, as his last drawn breath also drew back the smooth, velvet curtains on the grandest political stage play in the aftermath of the upheaval of the unseated king. From the moment the sun rays burst over the horizon and brought a new day to the land all the way until that same light faded back down on the other side of the world, Noémie had only a semblance of privacy and calm. At this moment, the last thing she wanted to be doing was sitting beside her husband's corpse being committed to the soil. All she truly desired was to get out of the garter crushing her enormously well-endowed chest - and her lungs along with them.

It wasn't another half-dozen 'Merci' later that brought the sitting ruler to her breaking point. The country had taken enough of her time, and more than enough of her headspace, and the time had come for her to unwind. Perhaps a hot bath was in order, she mused to herself.

"Come, Gael, Beau, we are leaving. J'en ai ral le cul, and I need to relax," spoke Noémie in between a prescribed visitation of political posers. With a synchronicity of acknowledgments and a militant adherence to carrying out their commander's direct instructions, both of the muscle-bound Africans lowered themselves onto their haunches and grasped the bewelled handles of the open-air sedan chair. It never ceased to amaze the queen regent when both of her burly advisors lifted her litter. It seemed to give them no pause whether or not she was seated inside of it. Considering that, Noémie decided that if they so chose to, the pair of them could probably tear her in half. She felt fortunate to be on the power-holding end of the relationship.

With their charge in tow, both Beau and Gael began their methodical procession towards the looming, distant castle in which the new queen would conduct her reign. In the gold-flaked ceremonial litter, Noémie couldn't even allow herself the pleasure of relaxing her head back and enjoying the hypnotic jostling of Beau and Gael's footfalls threatening to lure her to sleep. Any sign of weakness would no doubt be noticed by someone, somewhere in the kingdom. She couldn't afford that, so her posture remained firm and resolute all the way up the cobbled path. She waved down the gate guards from several yards away; there would be no impedances to getting her back to her royal bed chambers.

"Oh, God. Get me out of this putain de corset," pleaded the disrobing Noémie upon arriving in her quarters with a sticky coating of French epithet dribbling off of her words moments after arriving in her bed chambers. After spilling out of the manpowered sedan, she dispensed of her shoes and pulled her dress down from around her shoulders. On cue, her escorts sprung into action and, taking either bowed endline knot on the back of her tit-restricting garment, pulled the lacing away. Noémie heaved her first full-bodied breath for the first time since she laced up this morning.

"Mon dieu, merci beaucoup," breathed the queen as she was freed from the incarcerating chest guard. She didn't even bother reaching for it as the frilled, white, and hateful accessory clattered to the plush carpeting of her chambers. Had she not been wearing a light, unstructured bra beneath the pile of misery on the ground, she would've shown off her royal knockers to both of her upright manservants when she turned around to wrap either arm around their necks. Noémie sighed, then all but melted into the strong grasp of the two men. Maintaining the stoic, stone-faced and stalwart expressions they wore in a similar mask throughout the day alongside their ruler, Beau and Gael gingerly returned the gesture with a delicate tandem embrace of their own.

"Merci, both of you. Truly. I don't know what I would've done had you not been at my side today. I swear, if I had one more court duke approach me and give their condolences through gritted teeth before asking for - ah, I just don't know," blabbed an exasperated widow. It was plain to either of the queen's advisors that she was looking for an outlet for her frustrations. Noémie would have to search the countryside to find tighter-lipped, more able-bodied confidants than either of them, that much she was certain of.

"Come, come," Noémie broke away from them, turning tail towards the bay windows set into the far wall of her bed chambers. "I owe you both a drink. Consider imbibing with your new queen to be a token of my favor for getting me through this most loathsome day."

Beau turned and looked at his partner, who was already looking quizzically at him by the time their eyes met. Throughout the reign of Noémie's husband, Alistair, not once were the pair of them invited to uncork a bottle alongside the ruler of all the lands. Before they had a chance to consider this particular turn of events in the grander spectrum of politics within the kingdom, Noémie was beckoning for them once again.

"The bottle has aged enough as it is, you know! Another minute or two isn't going to help," chided the queen as she slumped into one of the seats nearest the turret windows that looked out over the walled city built up around the castle. Without wasting another moment considering it, both men joined her at the table. When Gael reached for the bottle, his leathery baseball glove of a hand was smacked away by the queen's own diminuitive one. An indignant look on her made-up, powdered face, Noémie swiftly fixed three drinks and passed two of them across the crystal-glass occasional table.

"There we are. Now, to my reign?" Noémie queried, raising her glass.

"To your reign," intertwined the voices of her two advisors. Three glasses were clinked, then three glasses were downed.

***

Noémie giggled heartily, covering her mouth with one demure hand. Her cheeks lit up scarlet, and she darted her eyes toward the opulent carpeting.

"Oh, my, I shouldn't.." she whispered as if to herself and not to the pair of men opposite her at the table.

"You said you needed something to relax, did you not? We are your servants; we would step in front of a dagger for you if that was what it took. If you, however, need something else, it is also our responsibility to attend to it," spoke the buttery, rich tones of Beau. To Noémie, there was something different about the way he spoke, but it was subtle. Darker. Something carnal trembled beneath the surface of his voice. In solidarity with the proposition of his partner, Gael sat back with his tree trunks crossed over his comparably thick chest.

Noémie, too, sat back and considered the offer she had on quite literally on the table for her.

On the one hand, her husband was only just now being lowered into the ground. Had news of this gotten from beyond the doors of her bed chambers, it would be a political scandal unlike any the country had seen. Moreover, she had yet to have the crown set upon her royal head. Would this be the way she wanted her reign to begin before the coronation ceremony the following morning?

However, she did need the opportunity to unwind. She had needed it all day. And, the doors of her bedroom were terribly thick - they had to be, considering the imminent danger a ruler was in at all times. The handmaids had been sent away for the evening to allow Noémie to grieve in peace. It seemed, then, that there were few hindrances.

Without another word, the blushing ruler pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. She buried her crystalline blue irises inside of Beau's deep brown ones for a moment as if judging his mettle. After a beat, she turned on a heel, her foot pressing down into the plush carpet, and strode toward the foot of her bed. Facing away from the men that were no doubt watching her every move, she reached up and undid the handful of pins and sticks that held her carefully done-up do in place. A cascade of wavy brown hair fell from the tightly-wound bun on top of her head and waterfalled over her shoulders and her lower back. Hair out of the way, Noémie turned and sat down on the edge of the enormous bed. She took back up the slack of their broken eye contact.

"Come, let's make this quick; nobody can know," Noémie spoke as she reached down to her waist and slid her panties off from around her hips, and then from around her ankles. Even if their monarch wasn't showing it outwardly, the thought of giving in to temptation (or, the pair of temptations, as it were) was obvious. Both of the mountains of men on the other side of the room could see their queen's glistening prize in between her spread legs.

Both men were, if nothing else, quick to follow orders. At once, they rose to their feet. Noémie watched carefully as Beau took point, striding in front of Gael as he unfastened his wool trousers. She had to restrict a less-than-royal gasp when the clothing fell into a heap around his ankles. Without anything to restrict it, Beau's mammoth black anaconda sprung free with the throbbing, purple tip of his member hypnotically bobbing up and down. The next several moments were a blur. She watched Beau advance on her, her eyes latched onto his intoxicating cock, slide his knees up onto the plush bedding, and stroke the plum tip of his menacing, curved pipe across her swollen slit.

"W- wait, Beau, perhaps tonight is not the occasion f- " spluttered the backpedaling queen as apprehension set in. Beau, however, either pretended not to hear or decided in the heat of the moment to take her majesty's best interest into his own hands. As his hips dropped and his swollen schlong into Noémie's pussy, an electric rush of crackling pleasure shot through her spine. Her back arched inwards, and her hips bucked back into the meaty incursion of Beau's black cock. Her hands flung outwards onto the bedspread and her fingers dug into the fabric. Alistair had bedded her numerous times before, but not only did this mark the first time her royal babyroom was invaded by a foreign dick, it was the first time anything of this magnitude had been buried in her guts. Noémie's practiced decorum somewhat faltered as a result.

"FUCK!" squealed the quivering queen as Beau settled into a gut-punching rhythm of strokes. Underneath the raging black bull, the pale-skinned regent looked nearly snow white. This was, naturally, a manicured part of the image of being in the ruling succession plan for the kingdom she now presided over. The paler Noémie was, the further removed she was from the common field workers who baked in the hot sun and spat vulgar expletives to pass the time.

"Drive that thick, black dick into my pussy!" instructed Noémie whilst drowning in the pleasure of getting her first - but, having it her way, not the last - dose of chocolate cock. The supple, young queen clenched at the bedspread and thanked her judgment call sending the rest of the staff away for the evening. She crossed her ankles on the small of Beau's back and gripped down onto him with her hips. She looked up into the sweat-glistening face of the charging rhino jackhammering her snatch and stared intently into his eyes. "Don't you dare stop - this is exactly what I needed tonight. You fuck your queen good, and that's an order."

The brutish response this culled from Beau left Noémie pondering if being instructed how to perform was one of her most trusted advisor's turn-ons. However, she would need to consult with her most trusted advisor on that at a later date, as she was presently being gripped about the sides and tumbled over so she rest on top and straddled Beau's lap - and cock. She felt a hand spank sideways off of her jiggling rump and send a trembling cascade of phat-assed ripples across her tender flesh. This was, as far as Noémie could tell, the veritable starting gun for 'phase two' of her fast-tracked royal mourning plan. She couldn't see Gael approach from behind her, but she felt him long before she would see him anyway. It wasn't Gael's cock pressing up to her already-occupied hole that made her shudder; it was Beau's dark chocolate voice that precipitated it.

"Let's break this bitch," growled the man beneath her.

Any amount of second-guessing "wait," or "hold on" Noémie had for them fell on deaf ears. Her former husband's cock was respectable, but was the sexual equivalent of a minor league baseball game. Noémie was about to have two decidedly major league baseball bats pushing up inside of the same, shared hole of hers. The feeling of Gael cramming his cock into Noémie's gaping pussy alongside his colleague sent Noémie collapsing onto the well-defined pecs of the chiseled slab of granite beneath her. She didn't bother trying to prop herself back up. Straddling one pistoning cock while getting hit from the back like a common brothel wench required all of Noémie's pomp and circumstance to even stay conscious.

"You- oh f'huck.. you're going to break me in half.." warbled the double-penetrated royal as her voice trembled like she was bumping down a gravel path in a drawn carriage. Every time Beau would thrust up into Noémie's thoroughly accommodated hole, Gael would respond with a rut of his own. Being in perfect sync was a requirement for their job description, but never did Noémie anticipate that their synchronicity would be used to pound her senseless on her marital bed.

Minutes melted together; the surroundings melted away altogether. The only sensation Noémie was aware of was the twin pair of throbbing fucksticks simultaneously hitting every possible pleasure point in Noémie's pussy. She could feel her eyelids fluttering beyond her control. A puddle of wetness was forming on Beau's rock-hard chest, and it took her several moments to realize that it was from her tongue lolling hopelessly between her parted lips, causing her to drool profusely.

"Spin," flatly instructed the voice nearest to her. It didn't much matter to her who said it; one way or another, following orders will yield her more dicking, and more dicking was the only thing that mattered at the moment. Noémie felt one of the two cocks excavating the walls of her snatch wrench free, which freed her to lean back and spin around on Beau's dick - managing to avoid slipping off of him - so she was reverse-straddling her bull. A pair of hands clamped onto her waistline and lifted Noémie right up and off of the cocoa lovestick up in her guts. Noémie heard herself whimper in disappointment. That disappointment, however, was quickly abated by what she heard next.

"Time for us to try something else, my queen," spoke the voice that was now positioned behind her. A slick-wet cockhead was aligned with her puckered-up butthole and slip side to side, coating her rosebud opening with a glistening shellac of spittle. Gael, now in her eyeline, stepped back up to the plate and teased Noémie's hollowed-out hole with the head of his cock as well.

"Are you enjoying yourself, your majesty?" smiled Gael as he shunted his hips forward to tease a couple inches of his addicting stick into Noémie's pussy.

"Y- yes," was all that Noémie managed to groan with more moan in her voice than she

wanted to imbue. She kicked herself for that one. She had been educated thoroughly in hostile negotiations. She could disarm a warfront with her diplomacy. Confronted with a pair of cocks having their way with her, however, and she was reduced to a salivating, swear-spewing sex fiend. Noémie resented the both of them for that, just a bit.

Her pair of well-hung African advisors, however, didn't spare her any time to mourn the loss of her queenly pride. Almost at the same time, Gael drove his hips forward and Beau rocketed his upward into the jigglefactory rear end he was powerbottoming. In a mind-numbing surge of sensation, Noémie was simultaneously skewered on a pair big, black dicks, using the wetness of her pussy as lubricant to cram into both of her occupancies. She wasn't sure if it was the introduction of a new method to double-stuffing her holes, or the ecstasy of feeling both rods syncopate thrusting on either side of the thin wall between each opening, but she was almost immediately sent over the edge.

Blackness closed in from her peripherals, and she knew that her open mouth must be spewing all manner of enraptured expletives while climaxing from the whirlwind of sensory overload and relentless cervix assault. Somewhere out in the darkness in front of her eyes, Noémie could feel both of the turgid poles pounding away at her begin to fire off thick gobs of milky, sticky, creamy spunk. It seems, then, that her ever-in-sync advisors also managed to provide her with a dual stream of piping hot cum - straight from either of their respective taps - at the same time, as well.

"Mon dieu, fill me up, garçons," bemoaned Noémie out into the eclipse of her world-rocking orgasm. In this case, her employees did not need to be told what to do. She would chalk that up to the extrasensory bond that you form with long-time coworkers; sometimes, you just know what the other person wants without them having to say it.

"The people will not take kindly to a dark-skinned royal child, my queen," grunted Gael whilst dislodging the softening head of his basting rod from Noémie's freshly spunked snatch. Beau, meanwhile, lifted his employer up enough so the distended O-ring of Noémie's formerly tight butt slipped around the head of his cock. She could feel a load gushing out of her thoroughly-used pussy and down over its similarly stretched-out neighbor. From there, the gooey waterfall of combined DNA would spill over the edge of the fine cotton bedsheets and onto the floor where it collected in a sticky puddle.