Queen B

I knew it would end badly. There was no other way it could possibly end. What's that they say? "Don't get your meat where you get your bread." In other words, keep love and work separate—or at least sex and work.

Well, lots of people ignore that and it works out fine; but I knew this wouldn't. I knew I'd be lucky to come out of it alive—but I did it anyway.

The thing is, she was just so HOT!

********************

She hired me. That's how it started: I met B, gave her my proposal, she and her advisors discussed it, and she hired me. And somewhere along the line, during that first meeting, I picked up on two things: there was no love lost between her and her husband, and she found me very interesting.

I wasn't actually all that surprised. I was tall and good-looking, I'd had some success, and I carried myself with a certain arrogance. All a marked contrast to her husband—the F-Man, I always called him. He was shorter than B, already a bit hunched-over, and one of the easiest people to ignore I've ever met.

Anyway, after a few weeks of hanging around I was called back in again to meet the two of them. In front of everyone B gave me the good news, and then said, "We need to discuss the details. You will join me for a meal."

With a wave of her hand she dismissed everyone—including the F-Man, to my amazement. A richly laid table was whisked in, set for two, the food and wine followed, and in no time we were sitting there, completely alone.

"I can't begin to tell you how delighted I am, y—"

"Stop," she said imperiously, staring at me. We sat for a long moment, looking into one another's eyes; hers were dark, very dark, and I swear I could see a bit of fire in them.

"We're alone now—no need for formality, or titles. We'll talk about the project, of course—the money, the men, what you'll need, how long it will take. But that's not why you're eating alone with me.

"You're eating alone with me because I like your looks. I like what I've heard about you, your energy and courage. I also know that your marriage hasn't kept you from taking your pleasures elsewhere, when it suited you."

She leaned forward, her eyes on me, and slid her hand most of the way up my thigh.

"What you definitely don't know, because I am very discreet, is that my attitude is much the same, and that my husband—" there was an almost audible snort of disgust as she spoke—"hasn't held my interest for some time now. I'm sure he's got a couple of young wenches who jerk his pathetic little cock for him from time to time."

Fortune favors the bold, right? I grabbed the hand that was on my thigh, kissed it, then leaned across to pull her head to me for a kiss. In no time we had our tongues in each other's mouths, wrestling as if for dominance. I was hard as a rock in no time.

Finally she pulled back from me, grinning, breathing hard. Her eyes blazed at me. She stood and took my hand.

"I think the rest of this meal can wait, don't you?" And she led me into a room, hung on all sides with dark tapestries, and yanked aside the linen curtains around a large high bed.

We tore our clothes off and fucked frantically. I don't think I've ever had a hotter woman, even with nearly twenty years of wide experience. She was like a man in that she took what she wanted. The first time she pushed me down and rode me, pulling my hands to her breasts, grunting and heaving as she plunged up and down.

She would lean forward for deep kisses, then sit back up, grinding and moaning, her dark eyes fixed on me, her mouth twisted into a crazy grin. And boy did she come! Probably three times before I grabbed her hips, pulled her tight down onto me and shot myself into her.

The second and third times were almost as intense—with time out to finish our meal, to clean up a little, and to lie lazily together and talk. I don't think either of us planned it, but by the end of that long afternoon we were already more than a little in love.

********************

We had to be careful. That went without saying; either of us could wind up with our heads cut off.

In the three months before I left on the first trip we only managed four times together. Sometimes the F-Man traveled, thinking himself important enough that anyone would care to come see him! But he wasn't the main problem—they had had separate bedrooms for years.

It was just that, to say the obvious, she was in the public eye. There were always people around—advisors, servants, "friends". I say "friends" in quotation marks because she didn't trust them a bit, beyond one woman she'd known almost since birth. Everyone wanted something, everyone was looking out for Number One, everyone would have betrayed B in a moment if it would have gotten them something—a new appointment, a noble title, a larger palace in the city or a bigger country estate.

B loved to ride, and spent parts of many weeks out on a country estate with her horses. That's where we usually met. She'd go out riding, have the servants bring her lunch at a pre-arranged spot, and then she'd send them away. After a careful check of the surrounding area I'd join her, an hour or so later. We used to laugh about having to share one plate, one wine glass, and one fork!

It was almost shocking how soon the fucking became more gentle, prolonged love-making, how quickly we realized how deeply we cared for each other.

B would get sad, thinking about me having to leave. "I almost wish I hadn't hired you, Chris—"

I always stopped her mouth with kisses at that point; kisses that usually turned into love-making, our words nothing more than brief endearments. There was nothing we could do about it, in any case. She had her job to do and I had mine.

********************

Everything was different after each of my trips. Better, and worse.

Better above all because we could see one another again. I could stand before her, in front of everyone, making a public report of my successes while our eyes had a different, totally private conversation.

Worse because we couldn't touch, couldn't kiss, couldn't smile or wink, couldn't be alone—sometimes for days, until a suitable opportunity arose.

The first time I returned, in triumph, she was very pregnant. Probably only a month or two away from delivering. The F-Man sat on the throne next to her like a peacock; even sitting down, he somehow managed to look like he was strutting.

As I gave them my report, shared the fruits of my travels, gracefully accepted their thanks, their congratulations and a generous bag of gold coins, I shared discreet looks with B. I did the math in my head—it was certainly possible. It MIGHT be mine.

"I think it's yours," she whispered to me. It was nearly a month after my return, the first time she could arrange for us to be alone together. We lay in each other's arms on a thick carpet set up for us in the forest.

"I can't be sure, because of course HE had to take a turn making his heir—but I think so."

I held her close, gazing into those fiery eyes, and gently kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead. She was far too big and uncomfortable for us to "make the two-backed beast," but we'd held and caressed each other for an hour, both of us coming more than once. I felt relaxed and happy—a man in love. My child!

"B, you know we—"

She covered my mouth her hand. "Amor, I know. The world will say that my husband is a virile man, the father of kings! Especially because everything is telling me that it will be a boy.

"But that means nothing to me. As this child grows, it will be more and more clear who has fathered him—at least to me. Believe me. By the time he is ten, it will be as clear as daylight.

"He will be ours!" Her eyes blazed. "WE will know, always, whose son he is. And he will know you, and admire you. I promise!"

Is it possible to be happy and devastated, literally at the same time? I found out the answer is yes. To be the father of B's son! And to know that no one could know, that he would never call me father, that he'd grow up as the son of that...gross, dimwitted fool... It was hard to take.

I stayed in the city, but far from the palace, when the news came that she had given birth. A son, as B had predicted. Cheers echoed across the city—a son! A royal heir for the F-Man! It would not have been appropriate for me to visit, so I sent the kind of formal note and gift that were called for, and hoped that B would understand.

When I left on my next trip John was nearly a year old. I met him only once in that year, when he was brought to B's side by the nanny during my final court audience with her. A handsome boy! Dark eyes—the flaming eyes of his mother—and beautiful dark curly hair. He toddled around the throne room happily, and gurgled with pleasure while trying to teethe on his mother's necklace when she held him in her lap.

And in all those months, those months when the kingdom celebrated the Crown Prince, their hope for the future, B and I managed only two afternoons together—two afternoons to love, to whisper, to hold one another and talk about "what if". A "what if" that both of us knew was entirely impossible.

********************

I could draw the story out, but what would be the point? Things continued along the same path—until they didn't. I made my trips, brought back glory and riches to B and the F-Man; with plenty of gold for myself as well, sure enough. B and I saw each other in large formal rooms, surrounded by scores of people, each of us behaving correctly and appropriately: the bow and humble words from me, the nod of satisfied condescension from her.

In seven years we had perhaps a dozen afternoons of love together; I've never been able to bring myself to figure out exactly how many. And though B gave birth to two beautiful daughters, either or both of whom could have been mine, there was never another son.

And then it ended. Suddenly and brutally. A royal servant arrived one November afternoon with a formal letter from Her Majesty. It was nothing terribly unusual or even that interesting, full of details about requisitioning, about land and money, men and material goods. I'd received countless letters like it from her in the past.

But two hours later, one of B's maidservants knocked on the door, a pair of fancy men's gloves in her hand.

"I'm sorry sir," she said as she curtsied to me. "Her Majesty directed me to deliver these—she is sure you left them behind the last time you were at the palace."

I'd never seen those gloves in my life, of course; but I accepted them, thanked the maid with a coin, and retreated into my study. I examined the gloves carefully, not knowing what to expect. Deep in one of the left-hand fingers I found a tiny slip of paper, folded as small as possible.

"Every fourteenth word"

That was all it said. I stared at it for a few minutes, then put the bit of paper into the fire.

Pulling out the official letter I'd received that day, I pored over it slowly, carefully. It took a few minutes, since I did not want to write down the words as I went, but the message was clear. I'll paraphrase for you:

"I have been betrayed. Rumors fly of the Queen's long-time lover. Uproar everywhere, and he is beside himself. I must be purer than the Holy Father. Farewell."

********************

I stayed away from the court after that. Got out of town entirely, for a while. Holed up on my country estate, then visited friends at theirs. Got laid once or twice. I was a haunted soul, not because I'd been surprised but because it was no surprise at all. B was the Queen—I never thought I'd come ahead of that.

Finally I decided to leave the country entirely, and make a life far away. I had plenty of money, and God knows no further loyalty to the court. But I saw her one more time, at a Carnival party at the palace—the room crowded and hot, lots of drinking and dancing.

The music stopped when she and the F-Man made their entrance, along with John. They moved to their places at the front while we all bowed deeply. Once they were seated Bella gestured to the musicians, and they began to play again. I watched her, gazing serenely and benevolently around the room at her "subjects", those immoral, hypocritical courtiers who would fight each other like rats for a moment of her favor.

And as I watched, her gaze fell on me, and held. She gave a tiny nod, and an even more tiny half-smile, as her hand tapped the shoulder of her son John.

I felt a rush of blood, and nearly stumbled. He was yours, she was telling me. John, Isabella's first-born, the future King of Spain—he is your son!

*

Author's Note: This is not historically accurate, nor is it intended to be.