Queen B

by ohio

Copyright© 2019 by ohio

Historical Sex Story: We both knew it had to be a secret.

Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Historical   Cheating   .

I knew it would end badly. There was no other way it could possibly end. What’s that they say? “Don’t get your meat where you get your bread.” In other words, keep love and work separate—or at least sex and work.

Well, lots of people ignore that and it works out fine; but I knew this wouldn’t. I knew I’d be lucky to come out of it alive—but I did it anyway.

The thing is, she was just so HOT!


She hired me. That’s how it started: I met B, gave her my proposal, she and her advisors discussed it, and she hired me. And somewhere along the line, during that first meeting, I picked up on two things: there was no love lost between her and her husband, and she found me very interesting.

I wasn’t actually all that surprised. I was tall and good-looking, I’d had some success, and I carried myself with a certain arrogance. All a marked contrast to her husband—the F-Man, I always called him. He was shorter than B, already a bit hunched-over, and one of the easiest people to ignore I’ve ever met.

Anyway, after a few weeks of hanging around I was called back in again to meet the two of them. In front of everyone B gave me the good news, and then said, “We need to discuss the details. You will join me for a meal.”

With a wave of her hand she dismissed everyone—including the F-Man, to my amazement. A richly laid table was whisked in, set for two, the food and wine followed, and in no time we were sitting there, completely alone.

“I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I am, y—”

“Stop,” she said imperiously, staring at me. We sat for a long moment, looking into one another’s eyes; hers were dark, very dark, and I swear I could see a bit of fire in them.

“We’re alone now—no need for formality, or titles. We’ll talk about the project, of course—the money, the men, what you’ll need, how long it will take. But that’s not why you’re eating alone with me.

“You’re eating alone with me because I like your looks. I like what I’ve heard about you, your energy and courage. I also know that your marriage hasn’t kept you from taking your pleasures elsewhere, when it suited you.”

She leaned forward, her eyes on me, and slid her hand most of the way up my thigh.

“What you definitely don’t know, because I am very discreet, is that my attitude is much the same, and that my husband—” there was an almost audible snort of disgust as she spoke—”hasn’t held my interest for some time now. I’m sure he’s got a couple of young wenches who jerk his pathetic little cock for him from time to time.”

Fortune favors the bold, right? I grabbed the hand that was on my thigh, kissed it, then leaned across to pull her head to me for a kiss. In no time we had our tongues in each other’s mouths, wrestling as if for dominance. I was hard as a rock in no time.

Finally she pulled back from me, grinning, breathing hard. Her eyes blazed at me. She stood and took my hand.

“I think the rest of this meal can wait, don’t you?” And she led me into a room, hung on all sides with dark tapestries, and yanked aside the linen curtains around a large high bed.

We tore our clothes off and fucked frantically. I don’t think I’ve ever had a hotter woman, even with nearly twenty years of wide experience. She was like a man in that she took what she wanted. The first time she pushed me down and rode me, pulling my hands to her breasts, grunting and heaving as she plunged up and down.

She would lean forward for deep kisses, then sit back up, grinding and moaning, her dark eyes fixed on me, her mouth twisted into a crazy grin. And boy did she come! Probably three times before I grabbed her hips, pulled her tight down onto me and shot myself into her.

The second and third times were almost as intense—with time out to finish our meal, to clean up a little, and to lie lazily together and talk. I don’t think either of us planned it, but by the end of that long afternoon we were already more than a little in love.


We had to be careful. That went without saying; either of us could wind up with our heads cut off.

In the three months before I left on the first trip we only managed four times together. Sometimes the F-Man traveled, thinking himself important enough that anyone would care to come see him! But he wasn’t the main problem—they had had separate bedrooms for years.

It was just that, to say the obvious, she was in the public eye. There were always people around—advisors, servants, “friends”. I say “friends” in quotation marks because she didn’t trust them a bit, beyond one woman she’d known almost since birth. Everyone wanted something, everyone was looking out for Number One, everyone would have betrayed B in a moment if it would have gotten them something—a new appointment, a noble title, a larger palace in the city or a bigger country estate.

B loved to ride, and spent parts of many weeks out on a country estate with her horses. That’s where we usually met. She’d go out riding, have the servants bring her lunch at a pre-arranged spot, and then she’d send them away. After a careful check of the surrounding area I’d join her, an hour or so later. We used to laugh about having to share one plate, one wine glass, and one fork!

It was almost shocking how soon the fucking became more gentle, prolonged love-making, how quickly we realized how deeply we cared for each other.

B would get sad, thinking about me having to leave. “I almost wish I hadn’t hired you, Chris—”

I always stopped her mouth with kisses at that point; kisses that usually turned into love-making, our words nothing more than brief endearments. There was nothing we could do about it, in any case. She had her job to do and I had mine.


Everything was different after each of my trips. Better, and worse.

Better above all because we could see one another again. I could stand before her, in front of everyone, making a public report of my successes while our eyes had a different, totally private conversation.

Worse because we couldn’t touch, couldn’t kiss, couldn’t smile or wink, couldn’t be alone—sometimes for days, until a suitable opportunity arose.

The first time I returned, in triumph, she was very pregnant. Probably only a month or two away from delivering. The F-Man sat on the throne next to her like a peacock; even sitting down, he somehow managed to look like he was strutting.

As I gave them my report, shared the fruits of my travels, gracefully accepted their thanks, their congratulations and a generous bag of gold coins, I shared discreet looks with B. I did the math in my head—it was certainly possible. It MIGHT be mine.

“I think it’s yours,” she whispered to me. It was nearly a month after my return, the first time she could arrange for us to be alone together. We lay in each other’s arms on a thick carpet set up for us in the forest.

“I can’t be sure, because of course HE had to take a turn making his heir—but I think so.”

I held her close, gazing into those fiery eyes, and gently kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead. She was far too big and uncomfortable for us to “make the two-backed beast,” but we’d held and caressed each other for an hour, both of us coming more than once. I felt relaxed and happy—a man in love. My child!

“B, you know we—”

She covered my mouth her hand. “Amor, I know. The world will say that my husband is a virile man, the father of kings! Especially because everything is telling me that it will be a boy.

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