A royal tax audit

Late at night you are in your bedchamber enjoying some bedroom time with your wife.

You never thought that five years ago, she would have recovered her attractiveness to you, but wealth and security have turned her from the unappealing shrew who kept your house into almost a fit companion for your good fortune. Her filthy smocks have changed for fine dresses, her haystack hair washed and brushed every night and morning into shining golden ropes. If her face is still plain, at least it smiles, and if her voice is harsh, at least it's harsh in your praise. And without the cooking, the washing, and the cleaning up, her lust has returned to what it was before she bore your three little treasures.

The two of you are at the window. You enter her from behind, her silk dressing gown thrown up over her wide buttocks, and opened at the front to bathe her heavy breasts in the moonlight this the warm summer night.

There is a little commotion in the courtyard. Some night messenger, perhaps. You see a white face upturned in the moonlight. Let them gawk. You are proud to show off your wife's body, the garden of your good fortune.

"Ah, wife," you say, "Such fortune has grown from your cunt! Three daughters in the king's service and a landed duchy! Show your breasts to the world, that have nursed three fine ladies for the king"

"Ah, husband," she says, "Your prick is as hard as ever. Now that we have such wealth, I wish you did not work and travel so much, so I could have more of you." She surprises you by squeezing down with her cunt. "I would not let you go, if I could!"

"Ohhh!" you say, "Where did you learn this?"

She squeezes your prick tightly, A touch of the old shrew entered her voice. "When Gilda started showing and you were about to send her to the country to have your brat, I asked her why you bedded her so often, and she taught me this." She squeezed, relaxed, squeezed, relaxed.

"Ohhh!" you cry. Had the little snip been conspiring with your wife, with all you had done to try and keep them apart? At least it was to your good.

There's a quick tap at the private side door. "Sire, sire, a visitor!" calls your servant Lily. You hope you can keep her around a bit longer before you put her belly up. She's fully Gilda's equal, maybe better. You'll just have to do a better job of keeping her away from your wife.

"Tell them to go away!" you say. Not that you could turn around. Your wife is still squeezing your prick tightly.

Lily turns the key in the lock. You gave the little minx one to carry round her neck so she could get round discreetly. But not now!

"Hsst, let me go, wife, Lily's coming in!" you half-whisper.

Your wife laughs. There's still a bit of her old harsh hee-haw in it. "Very well, husband. You must see Lily and your visitor. But do not keep me waiting up, or it will be the worse for you!" she says. She releases you, and you rearrange your nightclothes. Though there isn't a way to truly hide your rampant prick.

Lily opens the door quietly. Your wife is still leaning on the windowsill next to the door, so Lily's first sight is your wife's bare buttocks, mooning her as she enters. "Oh!" she says. Remembering her manners, she curtseys to your wife's bare backside two feet away. "My lady," she says.

Your rear-entry fuck has pumped air into your wife's cunt. She shifts on the windowsill to look back at Lily, and her cunt pushes out the air with a "psssssss!"

Lily looks mortified to be face-to-face With a pussy-fart, but curtseys again. "My lady," she repeats, and turns to you. "My lord, the royal chancellor has arrived, and insists on seeing you!"

"Oh, very well," you say. "Is he settled?"

"He is waiting in the map room," Lily says, "Let my dress you, my lord."

She leads you into your dressing room and pulls out a dark formal suit with silver thread. She hurries you into it, but has trouble lacing the breeches in the front around your still-hard prick.

"Sire," Lily says, kneeling before you, "Would you like a codpiece in front? It is not quite the style, but I cannot close your breeches."

"Ease me, Lily," you say.

"Yes, sire," she says. She takes your prick in hand and swallows its head. With one hand, she squeezes your balls and root. You close your eyes and imagine your wife's lusty body in front of you, just as it was before you were interrupted. In a moment you're spilling your seed inside Lily's mouth. You open your eyes to see that your wife has been watching from the door to your bedchamber. Her face is unreadable in the dark. She closes the door as soon as you meet her gaze.

Your prick soon ebbs, and Lily does up your clothes and bundles you downstairs. It's a long, tedious night meeting, something about taxes and warehouses and accounting and war readiness. In the course of the meeting, it begins to seem to you like someone has poisoned the king's ear about you. You finally manage to roust your countingmen and satisfy the chancellor enough that you can return to bed.

You climb the stairs in hope that your wife is not going to throw something at you. Lily meets you at your chamber and says, "Milady duchess was hoping to see you in her chambers. Something about this evening's unfinished business."

"Little minx!" you say. "Very well, off to your own bed, then," you tell her. Your prick swells uncomfortably inside your tight formal breeches. The old girl wants to finish the ride, eh?

You enter your wife's chambers through her dressing room. Once out of the hall, you yank your breeches open and free your prick, which springs forward and up. You smile and open the door to your wife's bedchamber.

Your wife is lying in bed, her fat legs kicked high in the air. She's grunting and moaning in the last stages before she fulfills her lust. And atop her, a well-built man, still in late youth, plows her cunt with his sturdy member.

"Fuck me!" she cries. "Fuck me, your majesty!"

"Yes, my duchess!" he cries.

Your wife yells out her fulfillment, her toes curling and her buttocks heaving.

You look at the man giving your wife her satisfaction. It's King Quinton!

You flush red and white with anger, but your prick is harder than ever.

You want to scream and demand satisfaction.

You want to tear him off your wife and finish the fuck yourself. Hell, you want to stick your prick up HIS arse to punish him.

But you want to flee, because you're afraid the king's suspicions might have made the chancellor's visit the final step before he condemns you to prison. Or should you throw yourself at his feet and beg for mercy.

And what is your wife's part in all this? Did she tip off the lord chancellor?

You see a screen you could hide behind, if you could keep a cool head.