the Princess takes control

The Princess, getting the sense of the room, exhales and slouches somewhat.  She puts the draft statement aside.  “I’m sorry . . . fellow monarchs.  I hope you realize I’ve been under a lot of stress.  It has been – damned frustrating the past few months trying to get support internationally.  My poor Mr. Forlu is practically holding his cup out like a beggar, stumbling from country to country.  Countries that are a lot more powerful than us and can do a lot more, no more than lift a little finger in their terms, aren’t doing it, fearful of how it might impact this infernal Cold War.”

There are some murmurs of sympathy.  Then a door bursts open and a fat man of about 35, his “field marshal” uniform askew, staggers in.  His eyes blink into focus as he determines there is a large round table in front of him with a naked girl sitting at the far end, strangely not a surprise, somehow he was expecting to see her.  On the other side is a young man he recognizes somehow, next to an empty chair, and he blinks again as he tries to remember the young man’s name.  He doesn’t notice the shaking heads and quiet expressions of loathing as he laboriously navigates around the table, turns the empty chair around, and aiming his butt, falls backward onto it, not a centered landing, instead he feels the arm of the chair painfully jabbing into his hip as the chair jerks a bit to the side and he finds himself seated.

“Good mor – afternoon?  S - sorry I’m a bit – ”

Now he blinks twice as he sees the naked girl hovering over him.  “Good morning – your naked – your nakedness – ” he giggles as he sees two angry breasts shaking with rage in front of him – “your – tittyness – ”

His face feels like rubber and goes numb as he is slapped, vigorously and violently, twice, three, four times.

“What the F**K is wrong with you, Horcrat!!??”  A hard bare foot kicks his chair to the side and he almost falls off it.  “You’re the F**KING KING OF YOUR COUNTRY!  YOUR COUNTRY IS IN DANGER!!  YOUR PEOPLE NEED YOU!!”  Her shouts echo through the high-ceilinged room.

He has never been yelled at and hit by a naked woman before, except once, and that was by a prostitute who was being paid for it.  His stunned eyes look up at the ceiling and then try to focus on the Princess’s furious face.  He dimly considers what has just happened.  He is the King and in his country striking him is punishable by drawing and quartering, but here he’s on a foreign visit and the attacker is another monarch.

With a snort of disgust the Princess strides back to her chair, her heels thudding against the polished ceramic tiles, her breasts bouncing up and down as if rapping him on the head over and over again for good measure.

She takes a few deep breaths, then says, “Comments on the draft statement, please.”