laceandcogs
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2010
- Posts
- 664
All is fair in love- and court. ((CLOSED to myself and saedo))
Though Margaret had been in the American court only a few months, she had become intimately familiar with the library. It was an expansive, expensive ramble of literary treasures, arrayed in that uniquely self-conscious American way- pretending not to care for the money spent, while commissioning neon signs to advertise the precise dollar amount they didn't care about. In her home court, Margaret could while away days thrown crosswise over couches, letting the warmth of the all-too-shy British sun sap her strength until she melted into a doze. Here, even the loveseats conspired to poke and pinch with starkly modern angles, defying the queen's desperate pleas that Margaret "make herself at home".
If only that stiff, stretched, tanned-and-bleached-and-botoxed miracle of surgical science knew how badly Margaret wanted to be home! She hadn't even wanted to come, and no matter how Poppa joked that she was "bringing civilization to the colonies, two hundred and thirty five years too late", she was miserable. The princess was a twit with thighs that parted like they were spring-loaded, and rarely had a thought in her head large enough to do justice to a "tweet". The queen fought valiantly to repair the gaping cracks in the plaster facade of her breeding, but every so often that Miss Arkansas 1992 accent would creep through and she'd bark at a scullery maid like she was calling a cow home to the barn.
Perhaps the king and the prince could offer some hope. They'd been touring Europe for months now- and, if they were a fair match to their female family, had seen little more than Amsterdam's red light district and Harrod's- but were due home tonight. Between the shrill shrieks of the queen and the hurried to-and-fro of the servants, Margaret fancied she was in Hell- a sloppily choreographed Hell that was beginning to smell a great deal like ham.
Ham. That's the kind of "royalty" they'd bred in America. Ham. King Washington must spin in his grave- he was a wayward and traitorous subject, but even he would have known better than ham.
And so, with a heaved sigh of relief and a pocket stuffed with apples, Margaret hid herself away in the library. She'd have to dress for dinner (which the queen had told her nine times since breakfast, would be served promptly at seven- seven! That's when children eat!), but she had hours till then, and this gown was her favorite for reading. It was rich, thick velvet, a midnight shade that brought out her eyes as well as the nearly-blue tones to her ultrapale skin, and it had beautifully embroidered pockets and a voluminous skirt. Further, since her tits were in no danger of falling out of the neckline, the princess had no interest in borrowing it.
Not that the princess could have jammed herself in Margaret's gown with a shoehorn and six attendants! If she had only the queen and princess to judge by, Margaret would be forced to deduce that silicon breasts, diamonds, and pale blue eye shadow were the country's chief exports. Charitably described as "boldly sexual" (and, uncharitably, as "cheap"), the style of the American court made Margaret look like a nun. Her court had not yet surrendered the luxury of layered skirts, of delicate lace, of stockings and garters and pearls and modesty panels and thousand-dollar handkerchiefs. If Margaret had her way- and, as the future queen, she would- they would dress like this forever.
Running her fingers along the edge of a shelf, Princess Margaret took her time selecting a volume. Nothing too serious- she'd need to store up levity today like a squirrel stocks acorns for the long, cold winter. Ah, here- An Ideal Husband. Wilde would never let her down.
Margaret stretched out on the couch, her head of blue-black curls tumbling over the arm, and flung her delicate, slippered feet over the other arm. Stretching like a well-warmed cat, she flipped the book open and held it in one hand, the other fetching forth the first apple from her pocket. A crisp, juicy bite made her close her eyes and think her first kind thought about America:
These hillbillies knew produce.
Though Margaret had been in the American court only a few months, she had become intimately familiar with the library. It was an expansive, expensive ramble of literary treasures, arrayed in that uniquely self-conscious American way- pretending not to care for the money spent, while commissioning neon signs to advertise the precise dollar amount they didn't care about. In her home court, Margaret could while away days thrown crosswise over couches, letting the warmth of the all-too-shy British sun sap her strength until she melted into a doze. Here, even the loveseats conspired to poke and pinch with starkly modern angles, defying the queen's desperate pleas that Margaret "make herself at home".
If only that stiff, stretched, tanned-and-bleached-and-botoxed miracle of surgical science knew how badly Margaret wanted to be home! She hadn't even wanted to come, and no matter how Poppa joked that she was "bringing civilization to the colonies, two hundred and thirty five years too late", she was miserable. The princess was a twit with thighs that parted like they were spring-loaded, and rarely had a thought in her head large enough to do justice to a "tweet". The queen fought valiantly to repair the gaping cracks in the plaster facade of her breeding, but every so often that Miss Arkansas 1992 accent would creep through and she'd bark at a scullery maid like she was calling a cow home to the barn.
Perhaps the king and the prince could offer some hope. They'd been touring Europe for months now- and, if they were a fair match to their female family, had seen little more than Amsterdam's red light district and Harrod's- but were due home tonight. Between the shrill shrieks of the queen and the hurried to-and-fro of the servants, Margaret fancied she was in Hell- a sloppily choreographed Hell that was beginning to smell a great deal like ham.
Ham. That's the kind of "royalty" they'd bred in America. Ham. King Washington must spin in his grave- he was a wayward and traitorous subject, but even he would have known better than ham.
And so, with a heaved sigh of relief and a pocket stuffed with apples, Margaret hid herself away in the library. She'd have to dress for dinner (which the queen had told her nine times since breakfast, would be served promptly at seven- seven! That's when children eat!), but she had hours till then, and this gown was her favorite for reading. It was rich, thick velvet, a midnight shade that brought out her eyes as well as the nearly-blue tones to her ultrapale skin, and it had beautifully embroidered pockets and a voluminous skirt. Further, since her tits were in no danger of falling out of the neckline, the princess had no interest in borrowing it.
Not that the princess could have jammed herself in Margaret's gown with a shoehorn and six attendants! If she had only the queen and princess to judge by, Margaret would be forced to deduce that silicon breasts, diamonds, and pale blue eye shadow were the country's chief exports. Charitably described as "boldly sexual" (and, uncharitably, as "cheap"), the style of the American court made Margaret look like a nun. Her court had not yet surrendered the luxury of layered skirts, of delicate lace, of stockings and garters and pearls and modesty panels and thousand-dollar handkerchiefs. If Margaret had her way- and, as the future queen, she would- they would dress like this forever.
Running her fingers along the edge of a shelf, Princess Margaret took her time selecting a volume. Nothing too serious- she'd need to store up levity today like a squirrel stocks acorns for the long, cold winter. Ah, here- An Ideal Husband. Wilde would never let her down.
Margaret stretched out on the couch, her head of blue-black curls tumbling over the arm, and flung her delicate, slippered feet over the other arm. Stretching like a well-warmed cat, she flipped the book open and held it in one hand, the other fetching forth the first apple from her pocket. A crisp, juicy bite made her close her eyes and think her first kind thought about America:
These hillbillies knew produce.
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