Royal Duties Princess TG Preg
- 1 year ago
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By Royal Command free porn video
My life changed completely the day my father died. Of course, that would be traumatic for any 18-year old girl, but in my case it meant I went from being a first year student at university, to being Queen Victoria the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the British Commonwealth of Nations!
The first I knew of it was at 6.15 a.m. one cold, wet Saturday morning, when a black limousine turned up at my college accompanied by two police cars flashing their blue lights. I was still in bed, and I thought my flatmate was winding me up when she shook me awake and said I had visitors — a junior minister from the Home Office and my father’s Private Secretary. Dressed in my Winnie the Pooh pyjamas and Porky Pig slippers, I stumbled into our lounge, and found the two gentlemen, dressed very formally, perched uncomfortably on the edge of our couch.
Daddy’s P.S., Sir William Merchant, had been like a grandfather to me down the years, and if their very presence at that unearthly hour hadn’t told me something dramatic was happening, his demeanour did –he looked as if he was about to burst into tears. Clearing his throat three times, his normal rich booming voice was little more than a croak as he said, ‘Vicki — your Royal Highness — I have the most dreadful news.’
Then he proceeded to tell me that Daddy had taken a tumble the previous day while playing squash. His doctor had checked him out and cleared him, and he’d seemed fine the rest of the day, but he’d gone to bed complaining of a headache, and had been found dead in the early hours of the morning. Apparently it had been caused by a blood clot on his brain which had burst. No announcement had been made to the press yet, and less than a dozen people knew the position. Sir Will finished off, ‘We’re here to take you back to Buckingham Palace with us — Your Majesty.’
To say I was stunned would be rather like saying Einstein was quite bright. My flatmate had made a tactical withdrawal to her bedroom, to give us some space, but now I saw her standing in the doorway staring at me with her mouth hanging open. While the junior minister started to explain to her about the Official Secrets Act, I, in a dreamlike state, tottered back into my room and started to get dressed. I’d got about halfway when I collapsed on my bed in wracking sobs. It wasn’t just that I’d lost my father — obviously that was upsetting, but in truth I’d always been slightly nervous around him, he was quite a stern, forbidding person, very different to his public image. It wasn’t that I was going to miss university either. Obviously that was over, but I hadn’t been overly keen in the first place, not because I doubted my academic ability, but simply because I would rather have stayed at Windsor with my beloved horses.
The reason I felt so desolate, as if it was my life which had just ended, was that I was not remotely ready for that responsibility. My parents had taken a conscious decision to keep me out of the public eye as far as possible until I’d finished my education, and the press had largely respected that. My father had only just turned 50, he was quite proud of his state of fitness, and I had received absolutely no training up to that point for my future role — which I had assumed was decades away — as queen. The most high profile thing I’d ever done was appearing on a kids’ TV show to promote a children’s charity of which it had been agreed I would be the patron! As I wept uncontrollably, I felt arms reach around me and I was pulled to Sir Will’s chest, as he whispered comforts to me. My flatmate hovered at the door, in tears herself, clutching a mug of tea for me.
On the drive from Oxford to London I was still in a daze, not really hearing Sir Will explaining to me all the arrangements which had to be made. As the car glided towards the private entrance to Buck House I glanced across at the crowd of people, many of them tourists, gathering happily at the formal entrance to the building to watch the Changing of the Guard, in front of the statue to Queen Victoria — Victoria the First as she now was — with no idea that, yards from them, the king lay dead. Long live the Queen! My mother met me at the door of the building, and we hugged in silence, both crying softly.
The official announcement was made at ten o’clock that morning, and within an hour or so the profile of the crowd outside Buck House had changed. The brightly dressed tourists were gone, replaced by a small flock of people dressed uniformly in black, standing in the drizzle reading the death notice which had been posted on the front gate. My mind still a blur, I signed various official papers as they were placed in front of me, having no idea what I was doing. Thankfully my mother sat next to me throughout the whole horrid process, asking the occasional sharp question. By seven p.m. I was ready for bed, heavily tranquilised by my doctor.
The next few weeks were a bit of a blur too. It took me ages to truly realise that I was now queen, and not just playing some silly childish game. There was Daddy’s state funeral, arrangements for my own coronation, meeting the Archbishop of Canterbury, heads of state from various countries, ambassadors from all over the world, posing for my official portrait, approving my image for new stamps and banknotes, for God’s sake! And meeting my Prime Minister.
Mark Prentiss was 43 at the time, and had been Prime Minister for four years, and Leader of the Opposition for three years before that. I had known him slightly throughout that time, meeting him at scores of official functions. When I was a little kid, as he filed past the family bowing, on a couple of occasions he shook my hand, gave me a wink and secretly slipped me a sweetie, which naturally made me fond of him. As I reached my mid-teens I could see why the press called him his party’s secret weapon with women voters: he was unquestionably devilishly handsome, six feet tall, with lots of dark hair, twinkling eyes, a ready smile and a trim figure. His face reminded me of an actor who used to play James Bond, Timothy Dalton, only better looking. He was also a brilliant Parliamentary performer, and had a charismatic personality. It was even suggested that the female Leader of the Opposition was in love with him.
Every Tuesday the monarch had a private meeting with the PM. Just the two of them, not even a Private Secretary or whatever present. Not a lot of people know that, as Michael Caine never actually said. In the early days the meetings between us were very formal, and I felt extremely nervous, not sure what to say or how to react as Mark told me the issues to be discussed in Parliament in the coming week, probable developments on the horizon and so on. Gradually, though, I began to relax and actually quite look forward to the meetings. Mark had a soothing, rhythmic voice, and it was an intimate hour or so of tranquillity in a life which had changed beyond recognition, with everyone seemingly wanting a part of me. Whatever public engagements I was lined up for — opening new hospitals in Burnley, meeting children of courage in Cardiff, whatever, I insisted to my diary secretary that I wanted to be in London every Tuesday evening for my meeting with the Prime Minister.
Mark’s party had a majority of only three seats in the House of Commons, and as we got to know each other better he used to spice up his reports with occasional little anecdotes, usually amusing, occasionally risqué, of the tricks his party whips had to get up to in order to maintain his wafer-thin voting advantage. He also told me the odd bit of Westminster gossip, like the Minister who was having a torrid affair with the daughter of another MP. I asked if Mark was going to keep the guy in his cabinet, he told me ‘Bill’s damned good at his job, the unions trust him, and, from what I can gather, his wife’s more than happy to let someone else have the fat sweaty pig grunting on top of them for a change.’ I giggled in a mos
t un-queenly manner, and told Mark I’d bet he didn’t used to talk to my father like that.
One evening when Mark arrived for our meeting, he flourished a pale blue and white box, tied with pink ribbon. It was from Fortnum and Mason, the retailers who supply the royal Christmas food hamper every year. Intrigued, I opened it to find a cream cake with a huge strawberry on top — my absolute favourite naughty treat. Grinning with delight, I asked him how he knew. He tapped the side of his nose and muttered something about government spies. Pretending haughtiness, I drew myself up straight and, in a booming voice, said, ‘Tell me! Your queen commands it.’ After that, it became a sort of little joke between us. On Mark’s next weekly visit, the first time he called me Your Majesty I said, ‘Prime…Mark — call me Vicki, please. Your queen commands it.’
I started to lay in bed at night after each meeting staring at the ceiling thinking about Mark. His handshake — firm, but with soft, dry hands, the delicate aftershave he wore, the little chuckle he gave when I made some comment or joke about something he’d told me…oh God, I’d never thought about any man the way I was thinking about him. One of the newspapers had dubbed me ‘the Virgin Queen’, after Elizabeth the First. That wasn’t quite true — I’d had one quick tumble with an older distant cousin at Windsor one Christmas, when I was 16. There had been lots of press speculation about marrying off the young queen, but there was nothing on the horizon. I knew, though, that I was experiencing thoughts and physical sensations that were entirely new to me, and it scared me slightly.
After one of the weekly meetings, as I was sitting mooning out of a window, one of my ladies-in-waiting, Sophie Foxcroft-Hamilton-St Juste, came and sat opposite me. She was in her mid-thirties and, despite being terribly upper crust, had a reputation as someone who, shall we say, had been around a bit. Since my coronation my mother had been increasingly spending time in her native Switzerland, and Sophie had become my closest friend and confidante. Seeing the dreamy look on my face she reached across the table between us, cupped her hand over mine, and said, ‘Penny for them.’
I sighed, and gathered my thoughts. Then I said, ‘It’s Mark. The Prime Minister. I like him.’
She looked confused. ‘Well, that’s good — isn’t it?’
I shook my head sadly. ‘No, you don’t understand Sophie. I mean I really like him. I think I’m…oh shit, I don’t know.’
I’m not sure what reaction I expected: shock maybe, or embarrassment, or possibly disgust. Instead, a slow smile spread across Sophie’s face. ‘And how does he feel about you?’
It was I who was shocked as I stared back at her. ‘I don’t know! God, what do you think we talk about in our meetings? I mean he’s married, and his daughter’s older than I am.’ Mark had a stroppy 19-year old, who seemed to spend more time in West End clubs and newspaper gossip columns than she did in her art college.
Sophie shrugged, and squeezed my hand. ‘And you’re the queen. You can do what you like. Christ Vic, there hasn’t been a king in history who didn’t have at least one mistress on the go! And the other Queen Victoria was reckoned to be boffing John Brown. If you fancy the PM, and he’s up for it, what’s to stop you? I know I wouldn’t kick him out of bed on a cold night. I have heard that when one of the Opposition MPs called him the biggest prick in Parliament, she didn’t mean it as an insult! You’ve got to find out how he feels.’
I continued to stare at her, my mouth hanging open. ‘Well, he does seem to flirt with me in the meetings. Oh God, no! I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. No, it’s just impossible, ridiculous, absolutely insane. Get lost Sophie — haven’t you got some footman to go and screw or something?’ Sniggering to herself she sashayed away, and I went to my study to read a briefing on a nuclear power station I was opening the following day in some remote corner of England.
I thought about Mark a lot during the week that followed. One evening I was watching the news on TV with a couple of my friends and there was a report of a speech he’d made in Parliament that day. As the camera closed in on his face I felt a warmth rising in my cheeks, and another one between my legs! I glanced across at Sophie and she was grinning at me. Then she lasciviously rolled the tip of her tongue around her lips. A little later, as I left the room, I leaned down to her and whispered, ‘I can still have people’s heads chopped off, you know. I’ve checked.’ The peal of her laughter followed me down the corridor.
When Mark called the following Tuesday I had, well, not a plan exactly, but an idea. I hadn’t felt so nervous with him since our first meeting. After we’d shaken hands he made for his usual gilded armchair, across a low coffee table from me. I held up my hand, and patted the brocaded settee on which I sat. ‘Mark, come and sit here. Please. I hate talking to you across a barrier, let’s just chat face-to-face.’
He looked extremely surprised but, smiling, he replied, ‘As you command, my lady’, then perched himself nervously on the settee, a good six inches from me. He soon relaxed into his usual report, and by the end of our time together, his body was angled towards mine, his arm resting comfortably along the back of the seat, his hand inches from my shoulder length auburn hair. At our next meeting I again had to ask him to sit beside me, but on the third occasion he immediately sat on the settee, much closer to me than previously. As we chatted I could feel the warmth of his body, and his breath on my face when he turned to me.
After each meeting Sophie tried to pump me for information about whether I’d taken things forward with Mark, in fact she was being a bit of a pain about it. After the third meeting, when she asked yet again how things were going I sighed and told her how close he had sat. She looked disappointed, and asked if that was all. ‘Well, he did pat me on the leg at one point.’ Sophie perked up at that — the idea of a commoner touching the monarch without permission is unheard of. She asked where on the leg he had patted me. ‘Well, my thigh. I complained about how awful I looked in the photo the press had published from that university visit last week, and he patted me, and said I’d looked fine to him.’
Sophie stared at me for a few seconds, as if trying to calculate exactly how thick I was. ‘Jesus Christ, girl, and you say you can’t tell if he’s interested? God, if he’d done that to me I’d have shagged the arse off him by now — your majesty.’ Despite Sophie’s comments, I still wasn’t sure how I could take things forward, or if I should, even assuming Mark was in the slightest bit interested. I mean, the only time we were ever alone together was at our weekly meeting, and it was in a sitting room, not a bedroom. Just before our next meeting, however, fate played a hand.
Sir Will Merchant, my father’s old private secretary, had a terrible stroke that Tuesday morning, leaving him partially paralysed and at death’s door. He had retired shortly after I had succeeded my father, but I still spoke to him at least once a week, and he was a dear friend. I cancelled all my appointments that day to visit him, and although I was brave when I sat beside his bed, I was tearful for the rest of the day. When Mark arrived for our weekly briefing my eyes were red and puffy from crying. Naturally he asked me what was wrong. I explained Sir Will’s condition, and as I did I felt big sloppy tears starting to roll down my face again. Mark reached out and brushed a tear away from my cheek, and my skin tingled.
Then, to my surprise, he reached out and pulled me to his chest, as Sir Will had done in my university digs all those months before, and murmured, ‘Come on, let it out, have a good cry.’ As he held my face against his chest, my tears staining his designer shirt, he gently stroked my hair. I looked up at his face and he smiled kindly down at me. ‘Th
ere Vicki, feeling a bit better now?’ Impulsively I strained my neck up and kissed him on the lips. If I’d taken time to think about it I’d never have done it. Mark looked shocked, and stuttered, ‘Vicki, your majesty, I’m not sure…’
I knew I was risking making a fool of myself, but I was committed by then, I had to know for sure whether it was going anywhere. I struggled into an upright position, my chest pressing against Mark. His arm was still loosely around my shoulders. I half-whispered, ‘I am. Sure, I mean. Your queen com…’
I didn’t get any further. Mark tightened his arm around me, pulling me to him, and crushed his lips to mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth. I sucked on it, marvelling at the sudden heat which was racing through my body — especially my belly and points south. I wrapped my arms around Mark’s neck and hugged him as we kissed for a full minute or more. Then he broke the kiss and mumbled, ‘Oh God, we can’t do this, it’s so wrong.’ He still held me as tightly as ever though.
Resting my forehead against his, my eyes closed, dreading his answer, I asked, ‘Don’t you want to?’
He sighed. ‘Of course I want to. You’re lovely, truly lovely, but…’
Again I interrupted him. ‘Well then, Prime Minister, shut up and kiss me again.’
With a smile he murmured ‘Yes, your majesty’, and we resumed our kiss. I don’t know how long it went on for before I allowed one of my arms to slip into his lap. I had never actually touched a cock with my hand before, but he felt enormous through his trousers. I found the top of his zip and began tugging at it. Mark muttered, ‘Jesus Vicki, no’, but he kept kissing me and holding me, and adjusted his position slightly as I reached my hand inside his fly. To my admittedly inexperienced hand his cock felt absolutely huge, and burned my skin as my fingers wrapped around it. I just did what felt natural, and started slowly sliding my fingers up and down his shaft, moving his foreskin with them.
Mark moaned into my mouth, and I felt his hand scrabbling at the front of my blouse. A moment later his fingers brushed against the bare skin of my chest. I eased my body back, to give him room, then sighed as his hand slipped inside my bra and cupped my breast. His breath had become slower and deeper, and I could feel his prick twitching in my hand. Suddenly he gave a little gasp, and I felt a splatter of hot liquid land on my fingers, as the pressure of his lips on mine became more intense. My nipple, under the palm of his hand, felt painfully stiff, and I could feel moisture beginning to gather between my own legs. Finally pulling my face away from Mark’s, I rested it against his neck and gasped deeply as a wonderful warmth spread out through my body.
Afterwards Mark sat with his head in his hands, and moaned, ‘Oh God, I’m sorry Vicki. This is crazy. It can’t possibly happen again.’
I felt an immense sense of power, like nothing I’d ever felt before. Kneeling on the settee I gently massaged his shoulders, and whispered, ‘Yes it can. I’m your sovereign, and I say it will. Now, I’ll see you on Friday at the Privy Council dinner. You and Mrs Prentiss, of course.’
After Mark left, I walked out of the door which leads to my private apartments, straight into Sophie Foxcroft-Hamilton-St Juste. She took one look at me, a broad grin spread across her face, and she chirruped, ‘On ya go girl!’ I felt my face burning, and dashed into the nearest bathroom, terrified that others may somehow read in my face what had just happened. Sophie followed me in and, smirking the whole while, helped me to fix my make-up. She started to ask me what had happened, then caught the glowering look I gave her and sensibly shut up. Later, in bed, I lay trailing my fingers through my pubic hair as I decided that in one week’s time, I, the Queen of England, was going to make my Prime Minister my lover.
Mhairi
- 07.11.2021
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