Accept her offer

“My fair queen, it would be my honor to have this dance with you.” The simple phrase leaves your lips, and you can feel all eyes on you as you extend your ever-so-slightly trembling hand to her. Queen Beatrice accepts, her fingers strong in yours, and together you glide her towards the open center, most desirable spot of the dance floor, presenting her with time to whisper to you, "I know this is not what you planned on happening, and we didn't plan on this either, but my daughter and I are prepared to do our duty for our country." She timed that out precisely. You both enter the center of the ballroom, and the song begins, signaling for everyone around you to start dancing. Just as she finishes, leaving you no time to respond. In a flash, she had you gilding her across the dance floor with skillful grace.

Even in the convent, you heard rumors of the queen's ability to dance, and now you are witnessing it firsthand. She was at war for her kingdom, and this dance floor was the battleground. Every movement was choreographed and had a reason. That purpose was either to show off her gracefulness or her feminine features. She wanted everyone's eyes on her right now, especially yours, and she knows just who to accomplish that feat. The waltz is an elegant dance, but somehow she managed to make it sexual. Before you know it, you have completely forgotten that the woman dancing with you was related to you, as the rest of the dancers faded away. She knew how to command a man’s eyes, and she was using every skill she had on you. As you had you say her, she would flash just enough to keep you interested, but not too much to lose her nobility. By the end of the song, you were left wishing for more.

The moment you release her, you are swept into the next dance without even a breath to recover. This time, it’s Princess Elizabeth, ushered forward by the queen herself. The contrast could not be starker. The princess’s hand in yours is lighter, but her grip is insistent, as though she’s terrified you might slip away. Her red hair, made wild by the heat of the ballroom, forms an erratic halo around her blushing face.

Princess Elizabeth was not as skilled a dancer as your mother; her steps lacked the careful razor precision of Queen Beatrice’s, but she was just as determined to win your eyes. She was aware of her shortcomings as a dancer, her shoulders tensed, and her steps sometimes landed the smallest fraction of a second late or early. It was so small that the average onlooker wouldn’t notice, but to her mother, it was clear as day. So to make up for it, she allowed herself to float slightly closer to you, breaking the invisible barrier of ballroom etiquette, as she intentionally allowed her tits to brush against you several times, while she flirted with crossing the line of nobility far closer than her mother was willing to go. Everyone else was too busy trying to show off their own dancing skills to notice, but you and your mother sure did. When her dance was all over, you were left with an odd feeling of satisfaction, to contrast with how the Queen left you wanting more.

The orchestra kept playing, and so did the parade of women. Each was a piece of the game, their beauty and station measured in the cut of their gowns and the discipline of their self-control. Some tried to seduce you with their wit or charm, others attempted subtle sabotage, attempting to glide a step too far, or turning too late, forcing another group to change their path and ruin their steps.

By the eleventh dance, you could barely keep the names straight, let alone the faces. The flower of the North, hair like snow and eyes like glaciers, clung to you with desperation. The daughter of the southern marshes moved her hands like a courtesan, her hips never quite in sync with the music but perfectly matched to yours. The second princess from the West, or was it someone from the south again, you can’t really remember, attempted to kiss your cheek during a turn, and for half a second, you thought she might bite your ear instead.

The ballroom itself started to blur at the edges, as if the world was narrowing to the circle of your arm and the shifting shape of your partner. You noticed, dimly, that the Queen, despite her not leaving the dance floor and out-dancing everyone there, her eyes never left you. As she studied everyone’s movements with you.

Around the 20th one, you began to wish for it to end, as your feet and shoulders screamed in silent pain, but when you glanced over towards your mother and sister, they both looked just as fresh as they did when the dance started.

And then came the concubine, the lowest degree of nobility women. And thus, the last woman in the queue. You couldn’t be happier to have finally made it to her. You had expected her not only not to adhere to the rules of nobility as she danced with you, but to crash completely through them, while making a mockery of them. But to your surprise, as she took her place opposite of you and started to dance, she adhered to every protocol and every minor rule that one could find. She wasn’t as good as a dancer as your mother or sister, but she wasn’t the worst in the room, and she didn’t even come close to flirting with the boundaries like your mother and sister did.

The last waltz finally slid away with a **** sigh from the orchestra and a few scattered, perfunctory claps from the less invested. The concubine’s hand drifted from your arm as if the music itself were the only glue keeping you upright, and when she bowed, her head stayed down longer than any noble so far, as though she was used to the world passing over her. You tried to muster a gracious phrase for her, something that would soften the humiliation of being only a concubine in a room of queens, princesses, nobles, but your tongue failed you. Her eyes, when they met yours, shimmered with a wetness you pretended not to see, and with a wobbling curtsy, she all but ran from the center of the floor, her slippers silent on the marble. As she vanished to the periphery, the ballroom’s entire mood collapsed like a tent yanked from its stakes. The dancing stopped. The pageantry was over.

After twenty 23 long dances, you are exhausted with two very sore feet. You had to stumble down the hall. If Sir Dietrich had witnessed your awkward retreat, he would have delivered a lecture on posture, dignity, and the vital necessity of masking pain. Instead, you are alone, lurching down the long hallway, catching yourself on the wall every three steps, flailing for the next sconce or tapestry to prop yourself up. And when you finally made it inside, you collapsed on the bed, not with royal dignity but with a thud of something being cast of with the trash. Even if your soft bed, your body aches too much to sleep. So, you lay there as the pain from hours of endless dancing slowly faded away.

As you lay there, you knew Sir Dietrich would have wanted you to be going over detail of every lady you danced with today, but that was too painful and your mind wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere that involved less movement, somewhere like the finical report you were reading be the ball started.

Thirty minutes later, you are nearly asleep, or at least pretending to be, when a sharp knock on your door jerks you back into the present. You're about to throw a pillow over your head to ignore the knock when you hear Queen Beatrice say, “Sire, we have much to discuss” from behind the door.

You are too tired to really move and wish to just send her away, but you know if she had made it all the way here, it was likely due to Sir Dietrich's wish, and not following them might cause more problems than this problem-filled night already has. So, you reluctantly shout, "Enter."

Upon hearing your command, with no hesitation, she quietly opens the door a crack and squeezes her well-endowed body in before closing the door, ultimately preventing you from peeking at anything outside the room. The fact that she was able to squeeze through the door without opening it is quite a feat given the fact that she is sporting a pair of double ds on her chest. "As your mother and the once Queen of this country, I feel that it is my duty to warn you." She walks up next to your bed and rests her hand on your thigh." You must be on guard at all times. There are vast differences between winning and losing for your candidates, and all will be willing to do anything to win. Failing the challenges you set before us is a fate few would wish on themselves in comparison to the reward of winning. As such, I wouldn't put them; it passed then to shove your cum out their competitor's womb and shove it into their own if they could. You must always watch what you eat because they will try to feed you stuff to kill your sperm on the days they aren't with you."

"Did you walk all the way down here just to tell me what I already know?"

"Actually, no, not at all. I just wanted you to know that, so you know why this is about to happen." She turns to the door, "You can come in now," and in squeezes, Princess Elizabeth, much easier than her mother did, given that she is only a pair of c's.