The peasant prince...

The Queen even took the initiative several times and visited the bedroom of her husband, King Eadric. The old king was a little surprised, but did not resist the next 'attempts to conceive heirs'. Sex with Eadric did not give the queen any pleasure. His flaccid dick was small. And achieving an erection was not an easy task for the old king. But Isolde made every effort to fuck with the king several times during the couple of weeks after… the 'visit to her bedroom by the drunken peasant.'

"When the external signs of pregnancy appear, I need an alibi. The calculations of the duration of the pregnancy period will begin… Now I can refer to the fact that I had repeated intimate relations with the king… Let everyone think that I got pregnant from him.

Queen Isolde's devious mind worked tirelessly to ensure her plan would succeed. She knew that if the pregnancy was discovered, she would need an airtight alibi. With a sly grin, she hatched a scheme to spend time with King Eadric more frequently.

Isolde grit her teeth in frustration as she lay beside King Eadric, waiting for the royal erection that stubbornly refused to come. She glanced at the wrinkled, liver-spotted hand resting limply on his own withered groin, and stifled a sigh.

Making love to her husband these days felt more like a chore than a carnal act. His tiny, flaccid penis required far more effort and coaxing than a virile man's would to bring to hardness. Half the time, the act was over before it had even begun, leaving her unfulfilled and irritated.

She closed her eyes and imagined it was her lover instead - young, muscular, and eager, with a cock that never failed to make her moan with pleasure. Her hand slid down to stroke the king's penis, willing it to stiffen.

Come on, old man, she thought, just this once. Give me what I need. The alternative of publicly confessing her lover's paternity would be disastrous.

She bent her head to lap at his nipple as she continued to fondle him, using every trick she knew. Finally, she felt him begin to stir and harden slightly.

"Yes, my love," she purred, straddling him and lowering herself carefully onto his small, hard member. "That's it. Fill your queen." Even then, it was over in a few minutes. She ground against him to coax out his climax, then lay on top of him as he drifted off to sleep.

**

Word of Queen Isolde's pregnancy spread like wildfire through the castle corridors and beyond. The news was met with jubilation and relief by all who knew of the kingdom's need for an heir.

In the great hall, the king and queen were greeted with rapturous cheers from the royal court. "To the future heir!" Lord Alaric called, raising a jeweled goblet in a toast. The other nobles followed suit, their faces alight with happiness.

Isolde allowed the smiles and congratulations to wash over her, playing the part of the blissful expectant mother. Inside, a small voice nagged at her. Was the ruse too obvious? Would they believe a woman as barren as she could truly be with child?

She brushed the doubts aside. The deed was done... there was no going back now. She had taken every precaution, and now all she could do was wait.

As the festivities continued around her, Isolde caught sight of her secret love across the room - the stable hand who had sired her child. He looked away, but not before their eyes met in a charged glance.

She touched a hand to her still-flat belly, a fierce protectiveness rising in her. She would do anything to keep her child safe. Anything.

The king's voice cut into her thoughts as he called for silence. He cleared his throat and beamed out at his subjects.

"It gives me great joy to announce that the Queen is carrying our firstborn heir. May Gods bless this child."

Isolde inclined her head, a demure smile on her full red lips. The firstborn heir belonged to the kingdom more than the king or anyone at court knew for it would be a true king of the people.

*

The tavern was raucous with revelry as the patrons celebrated the Queen's pregnancy and the prospect of an heir. Amidst the drunken revelry, a drunken peasant named Dunric was holding court.

"Aye, 'tis true," he slurred, his eyes glazed. "I was there the night the babe was made. The queen, she came ta me... a **** woman in need of a real man's touch." The other men guffawed and slapped him on the back.

"Lucky sod! I'd give me right arm for a tumble with Her Majesty!"

Rorik leered and stroked his groin suggestively. "She were a wild one, let me tell ye. Nothin' like those prim and proper ladies. I rode her like a stallion rides a mare, she screamed me praises she did." The laughter died as a shadow fell across their table, for one of the king's personal guard stood there, grim faced and glaring.

"By His Majesty's command, you're to come with us."

"What? Why?" Rorik staggered to his feet, still clutching his ale greedily.

"Slander of the Queen. You're under arrest." The other men scattered like rats. Only Dunric stood rooted to the spot, confusion and terror warring on his face.

"I… I meant no disrespect! 'Twas but a jest! I am a loyal subject, I swear it!" The guards seized him roughly and dragged him out, his protests fading into the night.