Petra saw her girlfriend Kate lurk at the bedroom door, biting her lip, looking everywhere but at Petra. One of Kate's hands tugged at her hair. The other fiddled with the waist of her pajama bottoms. Petra knew what Kate wanted to say, and she knew Kate needed a push to say it.
Petra set down her book, and said, '*Shameless submissive*.'
The post-hypnotic trigger rolled through Kate, shaking her body, rolling her eyes back in her head. Kate leaped into bed with Petra.
'Can you tell me a sexist fairy-tale!?' Kate asked, eyes wide and eager as a puppy.
Petra had grown used to her girlfriend's odd kinks, the kinks of a highly-stressed career woman who fantasised about alpha male patriarchs putting her in her place. Petra had even gotten used to reading her sexist bedtime stories. She'd bought a whole book called *Sweet, Sexy, Sexist Stories* by Peter Roi (most famous for *How to Hypnotise Yourself a Housewife*). The feminist in her used to crinkle her nose at the book, but love of her girlfriend made her power through. The stories were sweet and silly if you didn't take them too seriously.
'What kind of sexist are you wanting,' Petra said, pulling the thick book of stories from her bedside table. 'Do you want all women to be secretly submissive sweethearts, or just the heroine.'
'All girls,' said Kate. 'All girls, and I want us to be too silly to be left to ourselves.'
'All right, well, I think I have just the story for you. This one is called, "The Bratty Queen Finds a Man".'
--
Once upon a time, there was a young queen, called Emily -- though given how bratty and immature she was, you'd swear she was just a princess. Unfortunately, her parents died when she was just twenty-two, leaving the spoilt brat to rule the kingdom.
Queen Emily's rule was disastrous. She drained the treasury by buying jewels and dresses. She crippled the army by promoting young, dumb hunks. And worst of the worst, she gummed up the government by letting girls become ministers! These girls in government spent all day arguing over how high a bailiff's hat should be!
It is known the world over that a ruler is like a common well: if pure, it purifies; if poison, it poisons. Queen Emily was a poison well. All the women in the kingdom copied her. Wives, who once obeyed their husbands without question, now drove their husbands like donkeys. Businesses, which had descended from father to son since time immemorial, were usurped by girls, who demanded no fees from customers -- only kisses and flowers. Girls who'd reached adulthood refused to marry as their fathers ordered -- instead they prowled the streets looking for young men to fondle and fuck.
Despite her shrewish character, and her fracturing kingdom, men from all over the world came to woo Queen Emily, for she was the most voluptuous woman anyone had seen. Since her mummy and daddy died, no one could stop her wearing dresses which hugged her bountiful breasts, accentuating her cleavage, dresses whose skirts parted like curtains when she spread her legs. She would often tease the ministers of court by parting her skirts in the middle of parliament, revealing her bare pussy, her fingers fiddling with the tops of the socks that reached half-way up her plump thighs. Kings and Princes the land over would give anything to throw her down on a bed and fuck her silly.
Which is why one morning, like every morning, she had a whole queue of suitors winding from outside the city walls to her throne room. The first suitor to beg for her hand had an oiled moustache, bejewelled boots, and a golden codpiece, a codpiece so large the Queen let spread her legs unwittingly.
The first suitor knelt before her throne, and said, 'Most precious Queen, if you take my hand, I offer all the riches my kingdom can offer.'
She slammed her legs shut. Queen Emily scoffed. 'Win my hand with money? Am I a prostitute?'
Emily barked, 'Next!'
The second suitor to beg for her hand had a sword slung at his waist, bigger than Emily's body, and had thighs and arms bulked by war and horseback riding, muscles so impressive the Queen's hands unwittingly stroked at her cleavage and kneaded her nipples through the fabric of her dress.
The suitor knelt before her throne, and said, 'Most deserving Queen, if you take my hand, I will conquer nations for you, so every summer you shall have new lands to holiday in.'
Her fondling hands snapped into fists. Queen Emily scoffed. 'Are you suggesting my own kingdom's not good enough to holiday in?'
Emily barked, 'Next!'
The third suitor to beg for her hand looked twice her age. His brow was creased with experience, his hands were hard with labour, and his clothes were singed with flame and heat. Nevertheless, he had the dignity and vigour of a wolf radiating from him. Despite herself, Emily felt her maiden heart flutter, more primal than for the first two suitors. She slapped herself for feeling attracted to such a brute, but unwittingly her legs spread, parting her dress, revealing her pussy, as her other hand snuck southward to tease her clit before the whole court.
'And what can *you* offer us?' asked Emily, biting her lip.
The suitor did not kneel. 'I am but a blacksmith in your kingdom, descended from blacksmiths, so I am called Smith Smithson. I can offer you no riches unless iron be riches. I can offer you no lands unless my smithy be land. What I can offer you is experience, experience I had with my first wife (bless'd be her departed soul).'
'And what is this experience,' Emily asked coyly, a coyness undermined by her fingers pumping in and out of her pussy, and her voice hitching on every pre-orgasmic jolt she frigged herself to.
'My experience,' said Smith Smithson, 'is in taming hell-cats.'
The whole hall hushed. Queen Emily's fingers stopped their piston-beating in her pussy.
Smith did not notice the ice that came from Emily's glare. He continued, 'My first wife was a hell-cat, but with proper praise and spankings, I brought her to heel. She would come at my beck and call, and I tell you she was the happiest she'd been in her life.'
Emily jumped out of her throne. 'Out! Out! All of you! Out!'
The queue of suitors fled from her rage, and only Smith Smithson dared to wait until the guards escorted him out. Emily was too incensed to stay in the kingdom. She ordered a carriage and train of servants to take her to the Shrine of St Sally-Bet the Celibate, the patron saint of single women.
She rode alone in the carriage, fuming and fantasising about Smith Smithson. When she got back, she'd lock him up in the dungeon, wear her leather torturer's garb, strip Smithson naked, and whip, whip, whip his naked flesh, and kiss him till his cock got hard, and then he'd be so energised with lust that he'd break the iron restraints she'd have him in, and he'd bend her over a table before fucking her from behind, and she'd scream:
'Fuck me, sir! Fuck me, sir! FUCK ME-'
The carriage door opened, and Queen Emily pulled her fingers from her sopping cunt. 'Knock first!' she screamed at the servant who'd opened the door.
