Archive of Our Own ^beta

Trelawney Thorpe was always awed in the presence of her majesty, the immortal Queen Albia of England (long may she reign), but there was something special about beholding her in the garden she so meticulously managed. Here amongst the thriving plants and collected art pieces from all over the world, the woman seemed more comfortable than when putting on displays at court or handily dealing with diplomatic missions or dangerous traitors. She was more herself, and since that self was a goddess, she was more breathtakingly radiant.

That wasn’t what had taken her breath away and caused the blood to rush to her head, what threatened to make her burn up from within at forbidden excitement. She had beheld her Queen here many times — as Her Majesty’s greatest adventurer, she was ever at her beck and call. No, as she stood before the queen lounging on the massive marble bench above a babbling fountain, it was a much more vulgar matter that stole her tongue.

“What is it?” asked Albia, her voice sweet as honey and impenetrable as the bedrock of this sunken kingdom. “This quiet is unbecoming of you. I know I could pluck the answer from your mind as a burr from my dress—” and she did the latter, lifting up the billowing blue skirt as she did so and making the problem much worse — “but I would prefer you speak your mind. I do like the sound of your voice nearly as much as you do, you know.”

Trelawney gulped. She would simply have to say it. “Your pose is, uh, revealing,” she said. “With the way your skirt folds up over your lap, and with your legs spread so wide…”

As little as she was capable of disobeying her Queen, she could no more easily finish her sentence; it was just too embarrassing. Nevertheless, there was the royal pussy on full display, pressed against the cold marble of the bench. It puckered, almost seeming to beckon. It would have been rude, Trelawney though breathlessly, to look away.

“Oh, my,” said the Queen, lifting up one leg of her skirt like a curtain, though not pulling it far enough to cover up her genitals. “Imagine if someone else had been in my garden. They might have never recovered. It’s dangerous for an unworthy mind to gaze upon the body of a goddess, you know. Some of my sisters have killed, or worse, for that.”

“I have no fear of that, my Queen,” said Trelawney, still not averting her gaze. If she were to die, that would be regrettable, but fine.

“Of course not. I am more merciful than that; besides which, you’re certainly worthy. Still, there are others who could come here that I wouldn’t want to see that. It wouldn’t be fair to put the image in their head, and I’m not so good at taking it out of them. Would you help me with that?”

Trelawney nodded. “I would do anything for you, as you well know.”

“Great.”

Albia snapped her fingers, and suddenly Trelawney found herself no longer staring at the Queen’s crotch, but wrapped around it, her whole body turned into fabric and merged into a continuous shape. Her face was buried in the folds of warm, soft fat from Her Majesty’s enormous legs, folded up to graze the tingling flesh of her pussy and sandwiched against the cold marble of the bench below.

Two great fingers reached down, squeezing under Trelawney and scratching the taint she was now wrapped around. As the fingers pulled away, Trelawney snapped back against the flesh, moist with sweat and something else. She felt it suffuse her fabric body. Between that and the feeling of being stretched, she felt every part of herself in every way filled up with her Queen, and that was all she could have ever asked for.