The royal family of Eferia

Hélène-Lucrèce Belles-fesses, queen regent of Eferia, rose from her bath. She raised a hand to hold back her towel-bearing servants so she could regard herself in the mirror, cleverly warmed from behind to banish fog.

She saw in her own lush curves the figure that her daughters were growing into. The round face with full lips, the heavy breasts, the soft belly and deep navel, the silky bush and moist woman-lips and -- she turned to look over her shoulder -- the beautiful buttocks whose name she carried proudly, 'Belles-fesses'. As much as her noble Eferian-Langoustrian birth and her cultivation and learning, her ripe beauty had made her queen, twenty-five years ago.

King Abelard, left queenless after the treachery and flight of his war bride, Queen Medea, had sought to quickly cement his reign with a trustworthy alliance of strong Eferian blood. Hélène had been bright Europa amid the dull cattle of the suitable noble daughters, and she had been plucked from their midst by the king...

Well, actually it had been the King's sister, Princess Eloise, who had chosen her. Hélène's face flushed pink even now. The Princess had kept her up late talking and drinking wine, and finally she insisted, simply insisted they must continue their conversation in the bath. The Princess's skilled fingers found the truth that they sought -- that young Hélène was physically passionate, easily aroused, with pleasure not difficult to fulfill. And at length, Eloise ascertained that the young noblewoman was neither ashamed of her passions nor indiscreet in them.

And so Hélène had become Queen Consort of Eferia. The wedding had been an ordeal, especially as custom decreed that it must be consummated immediately and publicly. But Abelard had been gentle enough, and Eloise had done her best to prepare her.

It was difficult at first, being the wife of an often stern and distant man near in age to her own father, and suddenly being mistress of ceremonies at the royal court. Princess Eloise had been her support during the first few years, but with time, she learned to love Abelard and the role of queen, wife, and mother had become natural to Hélène.

Children had come quickly, first her twin sons Soleon and Stellus, then her dear daughters, strong and wilful Philippa, tart and clever Cerise, and her youngest, sweet Mielle.

All these beautiful children from her body, and scarcely a mark. True, her bosoms were fuller, and her womanly lips swelled more plumply and deeply pink, but scarcely a mark. She spread her lips with her fingertips. Deep pink and ready, but lonely these days. She missed her husband. King Abelard had died four winters ago. After a fever, he had seemingly recovered, but his heart had given out. But the dukes of the realm had given her the regency, seeing Soleon and Stellus as unready to rule, and being unable to agree on a regent from among themselves. And so she had become queen in power, as well as queen in name.

She gestured to her servants, and they stepped forward with towels. They patted her dry, face, shoulders, back and breast, arms, legs, and then carefully on her womanly lips and mound of Venus and on and between her lush belles-fesses. A third servant wrung the water from her hair into a towel.

"Squeeze," the Queen commanded. The servant drying her hair put the towel aside and spread fingertips into the Queen's scalp, squeezing to stretch out the tense muscles under her hairline. The servant behind her dug the fingertips of both hands into the Queen's buttocks, and the one in front cupped her mound of Venus in one hand and closed it into a loose fist. "Aaaah," Hélène sighed. "There. Enough, bring my night robe." Her servants quickly rose and robed the Queen in a light silk wrapper and slippers and wrapped her damp hair in a thin towel.

As she left her bathing chamber, she noticed her daughters Cerise and Mielle waiting for her. Mielle's honey-blonde hair was arranged in two flowing tasselled braids, while Cerise's brown hair was pulled back and knotted under her blue silk bonnet picked out with golden stars and moons.

"Mother," Mielle pleaded, "may we comb out your hair? We so love it."

"Yes maman," Cerise said. "It has been so long."

"I am sure you must have gossip for me, dear girls," Queen Hélène said. She dismissed her servants, knowing they could be summoned in a trice with a pull on the bell-rope. Hélène seated herself on the padded bench in front of her mirror-backed dressing table. "Is it as good as Philippa losing her virginity to the saddle when she jumped her horse?"

Mielle giggled. Cerise smirked. They took up combs and began combing out their mother's hair.

"Is it the visiting ambassadors? Did they bring a new dance?" Hélène asked her daughters. "Or perhaps another duchess was caught lifting her skirts for a page? That would make it three."

"Oh maman," Cerise said. "The second duchess was doing a horse-groom, not a page."

Mielle squeaked, holding back her giggle.

"As I recall, each of those duchesses had some reason to be looking elsewhere for satisfaction," the Queen said, "but part of coming to court is showing some discretion. Perhaps we shall see them next season," she said. "But what is the news? Do the Marsh Men claim they've seen Old King Log rising from the swamp?"

"Nothing like that, mother," Mielle said.

Hélène laughed. "Perhaps you should have brought Philippa to rub my shoulders while you comb my hair. The grip on that girl," she said. "Where is she now?"

"Still out on her horse," Cerise said. "Let me rub your shoulders, maman."

"What a good girl," Hélène said. She opened the loose wrap and shrugged the top down off her shoulders, baring her upper back, shoulders, and breasts.

As Mielle stroked a comb through her hair, Cerise rubbed her shoulders. Hélène sighed with her daughters' loving, sensual attention.