The Empress’ New Undress

She placed the diamond on the table with a flourish and asked, “Shall we have a little wager?”

Now, this wasn’t just any diamond—it was the Proof of Passion, the world’s largest black diamond, sitting imperiously atop a well-worn oak table. Surrounding it were various signs, one proclaiming “Agnes and Martin,” another cheekily declaring “suck great,” and yet another whispering “you want to,” followed by the audacious “so bad.” If it wasn’t already clear, the lady who set this gem down was no ordinary woman—she was, in fact, an empress.

But before we dive into the nature of the bet—before we expose the shamelessness, the scandal, and the sheer audacity of what she’s cooked up for the Emperor this time—you ought to know a bit more about her.

You see, she wasn’t always this way. Picture her at seven years old, eyes wide with innocence, watching two little sparrows frolicking in the trees. When she innocently inquired what they were up to, her elderly nanny turned a shade of crimson that would make an overripe tomato look pale. After a rather theatrical pause and a sniff at the air, the nanny mustered the last shreds of her dignity and muttered something about the sparrow “just being naughty and frigging himself.”

Fast forward to when our future Empress was nine. She spotted two poodles, shall we say, thoroughly enjoying each other’s company. Naturally curious, she wondered aloud if the dog was merely “having a good time” too. Enter the butler, a man of discretion and a master of innuendo. Clearing his throat with all the gravitas of someone about to impart great wisdom, he raised an eyebrow and, with a lascivious twitch, said, “That dog is giving the bitch a good seeing to.”

As the clock chimed eleven, the lass entered the bedroom to witness her folks birthing their only lad. The soon-to-be Empress stood still, captivated by her father’s drenched form. Her gaze lingered on his bare behind and the scene unfolding between her mother’s thighs. She observed her mother’s pained expression, or what seemed like it, etching lines of distress on her usually serene face. Perplexed, she studied her father’s furrowed brow, unable to discern who was benefiting whom in the midst of it all.

There she was, this little girl, standing right at the foot of the grand bed, her nose practically poking into the thick of things, utterly unnoticed until one or both of them finally clocked her presence. In a fluster, they yanked a velvet blanket over themselves, trying to cover up what she’d already seen. They demanded to know what on earth she was doing there, but the future empress, unperturbed, asked in the most innocent of tones whether Daddy was doing it right to Mummy, or if Mummy was the one doing it right to Daddy.

She remained rooted to the spot, as solid as a marble statue, even as Mummy, in a huff, shoved Daddy off her and yanked the blanket right up to her chin. With a look of resigned dignity, she then declared with all the gravitas she could muster, “It’s only fun for the poor. We are merely fulfilling our duty.”

At sweet sixteen, our lass was still in the dark about the whole ‘fun vs duty’ conundrum when a posh heir swept her off to his chambers in the banqueting hall of the royal castle. There, he skillfully untangled the strings that held her assets captive, engaging in a titillating romp that left her with one burning question. Finally unable to contain her curiosity, she sardonically asked, “Which one would you fancy, then?”

In the ensuing two years of exploration, she uncovered some home truths. Turns out she had a penchant for blokes with dark hair and eyes, night cloaking all distinctions. Fingers triumphed over hands, a nimble tongue outshone even the most skilled lips. Quick climaxes were in vogue over prolonged lovemaking, and a bigger package got the nod over a lacklustre one. A whispered gasp beat out the most gripping debates on bedroom antics any day.

As she rediscovered these ancient verities etched in stone by our forebears, she felt like she was reinventing the wheel. Once she mastered the basics, she delved into the more niche pursuits. Our future empress found herself most tickled by the notion of public dalliances—getting a thrill from flaunting what the heavens had granted her. Though such hobbies proved a tad tricky when you’re the only grown princess in a bustling castle courtyard.

She got creative. Creative, indeed. In the middle of the castle’s grand park, she had a life-sized sculpture commissioned and painted in the colour of human skin. The figures were the same nymph-like creatures she adored—those stone nudes scattered across the castle lawn, caught mid-dance, embracing one another, bending down as if to admire a delicate flower or perhaps a simple blade of fragrant grass. Or so the artist intended, at least.

But while the sculptor breathed a sort of motionless life into eight magnificent works, there were often nine nymphs for onlookers to admire. The ninth, however, had a different agenda. She too might be bending down for something, but it certainly wasn’t a mere blade of grass that caught her fancy. Her pert little derrière was on full display for anyone with the sense—or perhaps the cheek—to notice. And notice they did, though not always realising what they were looking at. It was a sight best appreciated at midday, when the sun was blinding, or in the twilight, when shadows danced and the castle paths teemed with strolling couples and chattering groups.

Whether the royal couple were aware of their daughter’s playful escapades is anyone’s guess. What is certain, however, is that they could have married off their eldest to someone far closer than a distant empire. And they most definitely could have accompanied her to the altar in person, rather than arranging the marriage from afar and sending her off to her new husband like a parcel after the union was sealed by proxy.

The Emperor, bless him, was the sort of oddball who believed in honesty and truthfulness, was convinced that love and kindness could conquer all, and, to put it plainly, had a childlike faith in happy endings—fairy-tale endings, no less. He welcomed his new wife with open arms, showering her with gifts and jewels until her chambers overflowed with all manner of fragrant, soft, and sweet things. Yet, with each of his attentions, she grew more and more embarrassed, until finally, he was forced to ask if he had somehow offended her. His confusion only grew when she responded with a request, one that seemed to baffle him entirely.

“I want a dress,” she finally confessed. “It must be of the rarest cloth ever woven, a fabric so exquisite that only the noblest of the noble can see it. The fools, the simpletons, the common folk, the poor, and the incompetent won’t even know it exists. It must be that precious.”

And so, hundreds of weavers set to work, each vying to create the most delicate fabric with the most intricate pattern, all in the hope of pleasing a rather particular new Empress.

Every day, the Emperor and Empress, accompanied by the noble lords and ladies of the court, made their rounds among the craftsmen. Beneath their skilled hands, the most magnificent fabrics took shape—gorgeous to behold and soft as a whisper to the touch. “Exquisite,” the ladies sobbed, dabbing at imaginary tears. “Absolutely breathtaking,” the gentlemen nodded, feigning deep appreciation. The Empress, however, remained silent.

Only she knew what she was truly seeking, and in time, she found it. Two wily con men were weaving away on an empty loom, as the assembled nobility stood by, gobsmacked. They stared, mouths agape, eyebrows raised, hands flapping about like startled pigeons, utterly bewildered by what they were—or rather, weren’t—seeing.

The Empress halted in her tracks. She gently clasped her hands together, brought them to her chin in a gesture of utter rapture, and sighed, “Oh.” She sighed again, “It’s divine.” And with a final sigh, she murmured, “I’ve never seen anything more exquisite in all my life.”

The courtiers, not to be outdone, immediately began to outdo one another in their praise of this invisible masterpiece. “How utterly enchanting!” cried one. “Such an original pattern!” exclaimed another. “And those colours—simply unparalleled!”

That day, nothing else was discussed. Each courtier claimed to have spotted some unique detail in the fabric, and the others would nod in fervent agreement. Yes, indeed, that subtle touch added character, personality, and a touch of mystique. And all were breathless with anticipation to see the Empress adorned in this most rare and magical cloth.

The Empress herself was hardly able to contain her excitement. She promptly declared the fabric flawless and ordered it to be handed over to the seamstresses. Three days later, the poor tailors, their fingers pricked and bleeding from doing absolutely nothing, and their eyes bloodshot with anxiety, fearfully announced that the dress was ready.

Finally, the day arrived when the Empress could reveal herself in a gown that, quite literally, suited her perfectly.

Adorned solely with a delicate smattering of pearls gracing her neck and ears, she paraded brazenly through the resplendent hall, smoothing out imperceptible creases, adjusting unseen frills, and playfully tugging at her quite evident nipples, her dark tresses coiled in elegant waves.

In the midst of the festivity, she gallivanted about in her birthday suit, wine glass in hand, partaking of the banquet amidst a chorus of laughter and gracious affection towards her guests, all the while unabashedly in the buff.

Conversing on matters of art, discussing weighty topics with an air of undress, she casually inquired about the guests’ impressions of the locale, their views on the current political state, and their thoughts on the climate, admitting her own as yet unresolved acclimation to the surroundings, all whilst au naturel.

Nude.

Exposed.

Bare.

Her pert nipples stiffened with anticipation, her nether regions glistening akin to a tropical downpour.

Seizing the hand of a distant cousin of the Emperor on her maternal lineage, or perhaps the great-nephew of the Emperor on her paternal side, distinctions that were altogether inconsequential, she led him into the vacant hunting chamber. There, she leaned nonchalantly against the table, parting her legs slightly, offering up her posterior and fragrant nether regions to her prospective paramour.

“Go on,” she beckoned with impatience.

The young man, let us dub him Johny, hesitated momentarily, as though gazing upon such a sight for the first time that very eve. Tentatively reaching out his hands before retracting them abruptly, he nervously fidgeted his digits, attempting to make contact once more, until with a step back and a muttered query, he lamented, “How does one even remove this gown?”

Flippantly rolling her eyes, she swayed her hips in exasperation and retorted, “Don’t be daft—just get on with it.”

And with that command, young Johnny ceased his dalliance and simply got on with it.

Exercising caution akin to handling a delicate situation, Johny proceeded gingerly, as though embarking on the task of deflowering a lady of high virtue. It felt like navigating a dimly lit conservatory, where a whimsical architect had arranged the glass walls in unexpected patterns, keeping you on edge as if you might collide with concealed barriers at any moment, despite the clear path your eyes perceived.

Johny harboured uncertainties, fearing invisible obstacles that might suddenly manifest at the crucial juncture, haunted by the whims of unseen tailors who could potentially embellish invisible garments with sharp creases.

Upon realising the absence of impediments within, Johny engaged in amorous motions. It was only then that the truth hit him like a lightning bolt – there were no clothes involved. The Empress had been reveling in her nude state all evening, a fact that tickled his thoughts as he moved with rhythm.

Bearing the Empress’s clandestine revelry in confidence, Johny became her trusted companion. This role not only held numerous advantages for himself but also for his close mates. Privy to the Empress’s secretive rendezvous, they ventured discreetly into the countryside, encountering the unclothed Empress amidst a gathering of eager young nobles and courtly ladies, engaging in mutual acts of benevolence.

“On a day of fate,” quipped Johny, “mayhaps you shan’t push the boundaries too far.”

In that precise instant, a looming smoke-hued diamond found its way onto the table.

“Shall we wager?” proposed the Empress. “I wager that I shall engage intimately with each of you, right under the Emperor’s nose. I shall gratify your desires in full view of the imperial entourage, and not a soul shall flinch. None shall find it amiss in the least.”

The following evening, the Empress hosted a grand ball. Clad in her most cherished gown, she welcomed guests from near and far. The talk of the town was, of course, her legendary dress. By now, everyone was well-versed in the art of feigned admiration, for any hint of surprise would mark one as an uncouth boor. As far as they were concerned, their role was to keep up appearances—one could not afford to be seen as a vulgar ignoramus.

After an evening of spirited dancing, the distinguished guests were ushered to a banquet table that seemed to stretch on endlessly, heaped with an array of delicacies. The Empress took her place at one end, while her dear husband occupied the other.

By this point, everyone had grown accustomed to her rather unconventional attire—or lack thereof.

Before they delved into the feast, the Empress rose, her goblet held aloft. “My dear friends,” she proclaimed, “Join me in this exquisite libation. Though a mere drop is quite costly, I wish to share this nectar with you, my most esteemed companions.”

Each guest dutifully accepted their cup. The contents were less than inviting and emitted a smell reminiscent of stagnant dishwater that had been left to fester for a week. But the Empress, ever the gracious hostess, assured them it was the finest of spirits. To the common man, it might appear as nothing more than a muddy concoction with a repugnant taste; to the unrefined, it might induce bizarre hallucinations. The ruder the drinker, the more outlandish their visions would be.

“Fear not, my dears,” she continued, her eyes sparkling with mischief, “We are all of such noble blood that we shall surely find it to our liking. Bottoms up!”

The guests grimaced as the vile sludge curled their lips and contorted their faces. Nevertheless, the men of the court, their tongues swishing the ghastly liquid about, extolled its virtues. They praised its bouquet, likening the aroma to roses, the hue to a fine vintage, and the taste to a blend of exotic nectars—some detected hints of peach sweetened with honey, while others fancied a note of strawberry with a touch of raspberry.

As an amuse-bouche, they were served tongues from some mysterious creature, the likes of which none had ever heard. Fine wine flowed freely, and the feast was well and truly underway.

Following the exchange of pleasantries, a succulent preparation of duck pâté embellished with olives made its appearance. As the guests savoured the delicacy, dabbing their chins in a well-mannered fashion, a discreet signal from the Empress prompted one of her covert paramours to rise from his seat and seize his youthful companion. Effortlessly, he reclined her upon the table, enticing her to reveal more with her skirts hiked up, deftly producing a small delight from his garments. Still in a state of flux, he readied himself with one hand, whilst tending to the enthusiastic lady’s anticipation with the other.

The guests were all agog. Those seated closest had turned a deep shade of crimson, their delicacies forgotten as they gawked in stunned silence at the sheer audacity on display.

Even the Emperor’s jaw dropped, his eyes narrowing in disbelief as he paused mid-bite. Only his dear wife remained unfazed. She continued to daintily spread pâté on her bread with her tiny fingers, taking measured bites while observing the astonished expressions around her with mild curiosity.

“Don’t you like it?” she inquired, her voice tinged with genuine concern. “I shall summon the chef. Do call the chef at once!”

“Oh, it’s absolutely splendid,” came a voice, though it quivered slightly.

“Quite exquisite,” added another, though their enthusiasm seemed to waver under the pressure of the Empress’s expectant gaze.

As the young couple were getting down to business, the table was alive with chatter: “Pass us the bread basket, would ya kindly?”

One voice chimed in, “Blimey, you’re looking a real treat today, my lady!” while another quipped, “Them olives in the pâté are properly pickled, I reckon I must grill the chef for the recipe.”

By the bustling turkey, two couples were all intertwined like a right bag of snakes. Murmurs spread of French court scandal, of kings and nuns caught in naughty dalliances, painting faces a jolly red as a sudden splatter adorned unsuspecting guests and the wine bottle.

The Empress, never one to dawdle, staged her own showstopper. Starting with a bit of cheeky business for Johny and his lot, she escalated to a grand sprawl across the table, leading a merry dance that could outdo any street market shenanigans, with slaps and saucy banter aplenty, all whilst playing the part of a roguish royal fool.

As Johny neared the moment of triumph, the Empress hit the brakes.

She let out a melodramatic sigh and rolled her eyes with such fervour that it could have been a performance at the Royal Opera. A long, almost theatrical moan escaped her lips, causing everyone in the room to snigger and turn their attention her way, eager to hear her next utterance.

“Well, I’ll be,” she murmured, a wry smile playing on her lips. “For a moment there, I could have sworn I saw something…”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she attempted to banish the thought as if it were a pesky fly. She shook her head as though trying to clear out the cobwebs.

“I must have been mistaken,” she finally admitted, her gaze dropping modestly. “I fancied I saw a butterfly. It seems I’m not quite as refined as I’ve always imagined myself to be.”

And the Emperor, that wonderful man who had not batted an eyelash when his beautiful young wife was doing three of his close relatives a solid turn, watched silently as she allowed herself to be pleasured from behind, from the front, as not one of her holes slackened. The emperor stood up, in his eyes on my soul you can see tears of emotion, the face of nobility itself.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Don’t be shy, dear,” he said to his naked, sweaty wife, who had his own nephew sticking out of her ass. “Then I’ll love you, even if my blood is not blue enough,” the knucklehead declared. “Because,” he chimed in with the best of intentions, “I can see the butterfly too!”

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