How I Became An Evil Queen


It was unintentional. Quintilla had not set out to become a villainous queen. It just sort of happened, y’know? Or maybe it was inevitable.

Quintilla was a most unlikely prospective queen. Her father, Centero the cooper, pounded and banded great oaken barrels to be filled with oils, beers, wines, spirits, and other fine goods. His profound deafness was an occupational hazard.

Quintilla grew to be extraordinarily beautiful, and intelligent, and ambitious, and desperate, longing for a life far from a barrel-maker’s clangor. Her tired young stepmother Marsala totally sympathized and assisted the girl’s plots.

Quintilla schooled herself to move far beyond the social circles of a modest artisan’s family in the kingdom’s capitol. She learned skills and secrets of seamstressing and decoration and decorum. She learned smarmy upper-class accents and jokes. She eavesdropped and cajoled and imitated and sometimes seduced – innocently, of course.

“How far did you go with that novice, dear? You know he’s already taken vows.”

“Oh, only far enough. He doesn’t yet know all a priest’s nasty tricks.”

“Well, don’t neglect to douche before and after, just to be safe. Nettle tea is best.”

“Ha! No worry! That boy doesn’t know a cunny from a handjob!”

Quintilla’s ambitions grew along with her mounting skill and knowledge. Sophistication drove her. She set her sights high, very high – the highest possible. None could surpass her target: the small realm’s fat Crown Prince, Rupert the Red.


I suspected him a sturdy begger, faking sacred epileptic seizures to gain pity and alms, especially alms. Many such infest our serene kingdom in this, our year of the Lord fourteen hundred and twelve, have mercy! Our realm surely has gone to shit.

But I digress. The ill-clad and bristly fellow flopped around for a bit on the flagstone court before me, and then lay still but for deep breaths, panting like a rat-bitten hound. I turned to my bailiff, Danilio Laurent.

“Signore Laurent, how would you determine the validity of a spastic such as this?” I nudged the filthy figure’s ear with my boot. “How can we tell if he is genuine?”

“Highness, I have always found that a painful amputation can be a powerful stimulant to confession.”

“Yes, signore, that sounds reasonable, quite reasonable. And where would you commence your investigation?”

“Well, your Highness, allow me to fetch my dagger and hatchet and don my work gloves, and I shall first remove the big toe of his right, no, of his left foot, for his is a dexter dope and that shall unbalance him more.”

Danilio prepared himself and moved to the paltry player’s foot. He examined his naked, filth-encrusted target, and nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, a simple chop should do the trick.” He hefted the hatchet, then stomped down on the quivering ankle and raised his arm for the downward hack.

“No! No! Stop! I confess! I was only playing a game on you! I was only having fun with you! Ha ha ha! It’s so much fun, isn’t it, fellows? You don’t need to hurt me! I will go away!” The fake spazz squirmed

Danilio looked to me, his master. “He has really done us no wrong, Highness. He has done nothing to deserve becoming a lame mendicant.”

I snorted. “He will only do this again if we do not punish him. No, cut it off anyway. That will teach him.”

Danilio raised his arm again. I clapped my hands together loudly.

“Wait! Stop, signore. To cripple him would only make him a true beggar gimp. We need some other method.”

Danilio considered. “How about the testicles, sire? Lacking those will bring him no advantage except in certain bars and baths. The boys may like him.”

“Excellent!” I clapped my hands. “Yes, do remove his balls! But wait. My royal sister Thalia will want to watch this too.” I pulled the bell cord to summon her.

Our game was always fun. This would be entertaining.


Crossbow bolts fired by the troops below clattered behind him as he raggedly ran across rooftops under the savagely grinning full moon, ducking and swerving, jumping the gaps and different levels, breaking a few tiles in his haste. One bolt creased his tunic; too close!

Comte Iano of Cuneo cursed his damnable luck. His seduction of zaftig Princess Thalia had gone so well! The precious jewels she had gifted him with rattled in a leather pouch swinging from his rapier-belt. She was quite the lady. He enjoyed bending her over her cushioned settee and taking her inviting ass. Ah, that sweet puckered rosebud! No, she would not be embarrassed by pregnancy.

He had even tapped her royal mother. Yes, the queen was his, too, have mercy!

But then that damnable fat Crown Prince, his over-ripe sister Thalia tagging behind him, had chanced to turn the corner of the long palace hallway at the wrong moment. An anteroom door had swung open. Rupert saw his mother the Queen on her royal knees before the Comte, tickling her healthy tonsils with his noble glans. Rupert had shouted, drawn his sword, and waddled with surprising speed toward the cocksucking. Thalia stood and stared.

Iano managed to stuff his frustrated ferret back into his codpiece as he fled for the nearest balcony and lept onto a passing hay-wagon. Good luck cushioned his fall. Bad luck aimed the wagon directly into the palace courtyard.

Iano leaped again, to the cobbles, and ran past the sleepy guards at the gatehouse. A shout from the portly prince on the launching balcony roused the liveried laggards but Iano was already around a corner.

Pursuit drove the Comte to his rooftop run and possibly to his ruin. How long could he dodge the arrows? What would be Rupert’s retribution if he was captured. Iano had heard of the Crown Prince’s love of castration. Were that his only punishment, he could count himself lucky.


Mimicking the wealthy and noble was not enough for Quintilla to gain admission to their circles. No, she needed to look the part, too, with fine clothes of rich fabrics decked with gaudy jewels and thin precious-metal chains. The cooper’s daughter was no heiress; she could never afford such costly, necessary adornments.

What the cooper’s daughter lacked, the bandit princess could acquire. Quintilla had learned many skills from teachers high and low. She paid with beer and sex to be taught the secrets of lockpicking, pickpocketing, wall-climbing, dagger-thrusting, pouch-slashing, and similar useful arts.

“Never shout or speak in your normal voice. Never let any recognize you. Oooh, a little faster please. Oh yes, just like that.”

The courtesan and thief moaned as Quintilla’s crafty tongue circled and teased her aroused clitoris. Fingers pinched nipples. A long, engaging orgasm washed over her.

“Ahh, nice. Next, we’ll talk about distractions. Ah, do that again. Ummm…”

Carefully disguised, a black domino over her eyes, working only under dark skies, Quintilla assembled a small team of bandits. Their simple task was to clumsily rob merchant households to draw away and distract city guards while she stealthily stuck richer targets elsewhere. She prided herself on strategy.

The strategy worked almost every time. This time, she was unlucky. She happened to slide down her doubled escape line from the rich silk-merchant’s stronghold with a pouch of gold coins just as a city patrol happened around a corner, not far enough to avoid their notice. The gleam of her eyes in their torchlight gave her away.

The first crossbow bolt nearly caught her before she reached her planned escape route. That route led to the nearest high rooftops. More bolts rattled the roof tiles as she ran. If she could only make it to a building junction ahead, she could slip into the Thieves’ Quarter and thence to her hideaway.


Comte Iano of Cuneo heard crossbow bolts landing closer behind him – but also further, in front. He heard footsteps dashing toward him. Oh shit, was he caught?

Quintilla the bandit princess heard the same sounds as she dashed and sometimes stumbled. Oh fuck, was she caught?

They rounded a tower at a junction of buildings… and crashed headlong into each other. Both fell.

Quintilla saw a stranger in nobleman’s garb. “You’re not a guard,” she whispered.

Iano saw a masked young woman in tight black tunic and pantaloons. “They’ll kill me, or worse,” he gasped, and pushed himself up.

She accepted his offered hand and made a snap judgement.

“Follow me,” she murmured, and led him to escape.

Down dark alleys, over challenging walls, across ominous courtyards, dodging candlelit windows and torchlit gateways. Not far into the flight, Quintilla stopped and pressed her hand to Iano’s chest.

“You’re a noisy pig. You’ll have dogs barking and giving us away. You need to be silent. Here, walk like this,” she whispered, and quickly showed him how to walk stealthily but hastily.

“Not like that, dummy. Heel-to-toe, gently, steadily. Yes…”

They moved through dark passages to her hideaway under a pestilent tavern at the edge of the Thieves’ Quarter but not far from the district of wood- and metal-workers. The noxious hide-tanners and soap-makers were further out, have mercy!

Quintilla barred the room’s door and lit a tallow candle. Its smoky light revealed a small chamber with the crudest furnishings and a hanging rack of clothes. Quintilla looked at her companion.

“The guards will be searching for us. We can’t stay here – I must return to my family house – and you can’t go out looking like that. A priest? No, you have too much hair, so we can’t do the priest-and-nun charade. You’ll dress as a craftsman and I’ll be your whore. Take off your clothes and put these on,” she said, sifting the costume stash and handing him a commoner’s tunic and pantaloons. She stripped off her own ninja-like garb.

Iano stared as the naked wench wrapped herself in indecently translucent sashes. She turned, saw his eyes, and slapped him.

“You want to die? That’s easy. You want to live? Get dressed, you moron. And forget your rapier. Artisans don’t carry those. This dagger on your belt will do. Leave any valuables, too.”

She pulled his jewel-filled pouch from his belt. That, and her own coin pouches, she hid in a chamber cut into her rough table.

She slapped the staring noble again. “Move, idiot! And don’t talk. Not a word.”

Iano shook himself and complied. Reconfigured, Quintilla pushed him out the door.

Their short journey took them past several suspicious city guards. Quintilla pulled Iano tight against her as they staggered on the walkways. She forced his hands to her breast and crotch.

“Grab me like you own me, fool,” she whispered. “I’m only a whore, remember?”

Iano had fucked more than a few whores in his life. He acted the part. Guards viewed and dismissed the staggering couple and continued their search for the bandit and the noble.


They reached the cooper’s house a few minutes later. Quintilla led Iano up a steep stairway to the living quarters above the workshop. She stripped-off her wrap.

“There’s only one bed. Get naked and come with me.” She plucked at his tunic.

Iano shrugged out of his clothes. Quintilla tugged him to the wide, low bed’s straw-stuffed mattress. She pushed occupants out of the way and pulled him to her. An older pair, her father and his wife, lay coupled beside them. Full and step-siblings lay beyond. Quintilla spread her legs and rolled Iano atop her.

“Fuck me, fool. They’ll wake and be suspicious otherwise.”

Iano had a feeling she had done this before.

She fondled his cock.

“Umm, that’s a big one,” she whispered.

She stroked him to rigid stiffness and aimed him. He took the hint and slithered into her portal. She pulled his face to hers and moaned almost-silently into his mouth.

“You’re not so bad,” she muttered, and pulled his lips to her nipple.

Iano was practiced at pleasing women. He kissed her breasts, around and between and at each lovely point, and up her neck, and along her shoulders, and around her mouth… and then down her neck to her breasts again.

His noble knob moved into her depths very slowly at first, staying deep inside on the in-strokes, not waiting long on the out-strokes, and slightly adjusting his angle for best contact and friction. She gasped when her button hit his pubic bone. He smiled and reapplied his strokes.

Their motions were absorbed by the bed’s straw stuffing but their soft noises roused the cooper’s wife, Marsala. (She was his third wife; Quintilla’s mother was long dead.) Centero the cooper was quite deaf and heard nothing. (Cooperage is a very noisy craft.) Centero’s other children, beside the couple, stirred slightly. His sons, apprenticed as coopers, were almost deaf already; they barely twitched. His daughters grumbled sleepily but quickly returned to dreamland where they were transported to better worlds by handsome noblemen on dashing steeds, yada yada.

Centero’s main affliction, besides deafness, was his recent priapism. His erection never softened and he never came – but he had fun anyway. Marsala liked that. They were still joined from their last goodnight fuck. Marsala twisted so she rode atop his never-ending cock. Her large breasts slapped against her chest as she slowly drove herself toward satisfaction.

Iano moved steadily between Quintilla’s open thighs; he could not help noticing the adjacent copulation. The room was profoundly dark but he saw the moving shadow, sensed the moving mammaries. He leaned to her and mouthed a fluffy aureole. She moaned and pushed her torso toward him.

Quintilla’s hand pulled his face back to hers some seconds later.

“Not now,” she hissed. “Pay attention to me now.”

So Iano fucked harder, and Quintilla clutched tighter, and Marsala rode faster, and all came (mostly quietly) at nearly the same time. And Centero, who heard nothing but probably experienced a juicy wet-dream, shifted under his rider, and snored.


Daybreak came too soon. Marsala crawled off her husband and bestirred the children. Centero glanced incuriously at his eldest daughter and her fuckmate and followed them. Quintilla slapped Iano awake.

“Come now, time to dress and eat. We’ll talk later.”

After a hearty meal of porridge and cheese, Centero and his sons went downstairs to bang nascent barrels together. Marsala set the daughters to housework chores and then motioned Quiintilla and Iano to sit at the main room’s table again. She poured watered wine into rough cups.

“Is there a story?” the stepmother asked.

Quintilla rolled her eyes.

“Oh yes. Quite a story and I don’t know much of it. I was nearly caught and then I ran into this aristocratic twit. We made it back here alive, have mercy. Well, twit, what is your story?”

She slapped his cheek. Not too hard. Noticeable.

Iano sipped his wine and surveyed the eyes piercing him. He cleared his throat.

“I an Iano, Comte de Cuneo in Savoy. I-“

Quintilla slapped his cheek again, harder.

“No bullshit, moron. Tell the truth.”

She swung at him again. He grabbed her hand.

“You’re a prickly one, aren’t you? That IS the truth, peasant! I am the sitting count of a small, poor domain. Or I was, till I left. My younger brother now wastes his times trying to run the place. Anyway, my father, the previous Comte de Cuneo, mortgaged the entire realm to pay for his gambling. I had little in the way of resources when he died, drunk, in the arms of several prostitutes, and left me his title and debts. Only the title has been of any use to me. I have spent my adult life as a noble vagabond, traveling throughout Europe, guesting at royal and noble courts, or in abbeys when necessary.

“I have been well-received in most places and have feasted with many monarchs, dukes and duchesses, princes and margraves and archbishops. I have prospered through my own efforts – and that is why I am with you now. Without immodesty, I can say that I have some expertise as a lover.”

Quintilla’s mouth twitched to an almost-smile. Yes, she had enjoyed his cock, which he had used with some skill. She straightened her face again.

“Yes, I have prevailed with many of the highest women in Christendom, with queens and princesses and even abbesses, have mercy. Many have chosen to gift me with precious metals and jewels. Your own realm’s Princess Thalia saw fit to provide me with rare stones… which are now in your hideaway, girl. Oh, you have not even told me your name yet!”

“I am Quintilla, eventually to be queen of this realm, and this is my stepmother Marsala, who will be at my right hand. And you are a slimy toad; I believe not a word. Except… those were jewels in your pouch. I wonder…” She shook her head. “But why were you running across rooftops with guards shooting at you?”

“My dear Quintilla, I have great talent in wooing elegant women. And I usually have great luck in my assignations. But last night, alas, I was carelessly, er, rather intimate with her royal majesty the Queen, as I had been with the generous Princess Thalia; and by the most damnable bad luck, we were seen by your Crown Prince Rupert the Red and Thalia. He raised the alarm. The chase was on. You know the rest.”

He drank more of his wine and tried not to wince.

“And I am now at your tender mercies. I dare not venture into the city in daylight – too many guards would recognize me. Doubtless my lodging has been ransacked. I possess only these humble clothes you forced on me, Quintilla. You possess my other clothes, my rapier, and those few jewels, my only remaining wealth.’

Another sip from the clay cup. A look directly in Quintilla’s eyes.

“You would do best to murder me this very moment. If you send me out, I will be captured, and tortured, and I will scream out all I know… including your names, have mercy. And I cannot remain. I doubt your family will suffer my presence here for long,” he said, glancing at Marsala, “and my presence is unlikely to remain unknown.

“But I propose this. Hide me here until darkness tonight. From your hiding place, retrieve my clothes and rapier. I beg you to purchase all the jewels for one gold coin – that will see me through to the next realm. Then I shall sneak away, to be gone from here forever. What say you, my dear Quintilla?”

The girl stared into his eyes and sipped from her cup. A blink; then she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She sighed softly but otherwise did not move.

“Let me think. I have an idea.” She looked at him again. “Stay today. Guards may come searching; we have a hidden cellar they have never yet found.” Another blink. “Yes, stay today. I think I may have some use for you – and you may survive a bit longer. Longer than you deserve, likely. But…”

Quintilla turned to her stepmother.

“Hide him, sweet Marsala. I must go below to manage father’s account books; he always messes them up. Then I will go out and learn a few things, and think more. Hide this self-proclaimed ‘count’ until I return.”

She saw Marsala glance quickly but hungrily at Iano. Likely remembering last night’s breast-sucking, she thought.

“And don’t get caught,” she warned. Marsala blushed. Iano barely twitched.

Quintilla pushed away and descended the steep staircase. Pounding from below echoed up its narrow passage.


Marsala bustled to clear the kitchen and then led Iano down those same steps. They paused only a moment at the doorway leading to the noisy workshop, then passed through a closed door and down a similar flight of steps.

The surprisingly clean cellar was lit dimly by thin horizontal glazed windows along the ceiling. Crates and barrels loomed in the gloom. Piles of wooden beams and metal ingots were neatly arrayed. Marsala led Iano to one stack of crates against a wall. She reached behind the top crate and did something with her hand. The whole stack rolled away from the wall, hinged on one side, silently riding oiled casters. A doorway was revealed.

“In here, sir,” she said, taking his hand. She pulled the clever door shut after her.

Thin cracks in the upper wall allowed a trace of light showing a tiny cell with a blanket-covered pallet on the floor, a clay water jug, cup, and bowl, a waste bucket, and a low stool topped with folded fluffy fabric – toweling, no doubt. His hand still in hers, she pulled him toward the bedding.

“You tasted me briefly last night, sir. Your mouth felt good upon my breast. Your tongue tantalized me. Would you like to taste me again, dear count?”

She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe a decade older than Quintilla. Her dark hair was twisted in a thick plait. She wore a simple linen robe belted by a waist sash. She pulled the robe off her shoulders, exposing her from her flat belly and ‘inny’ navel upwards. Her breasts were large and full, with little sag. Her fluffy aureoles were tipped with engorged blueberry nipples. She quivered.

She tugged his hand. He leaned forward and suckled, first left, then right. She moaned and pulled his head to her with both hands. He stroked her back and sides and shoulders while he worshiped those splendid orbs.

She pushed away and untied her sash. The robe fell away. She stood naked before him except her ankle-laced sandals. Her legs were slightly spread. He saw a gleam of moisture at her dark-furred opening.

Iano lifted his tunic over his head and pulled off his soft bootlings and woolen pantaloons. His long erection stood out like a fleshy beacon.

She splashed water onto a cloth and approached him.

“Sir, if I may?”

She wiped off his genitals, then added a splash and cleaned herself too. She threw the cloth aside. He pulled her to him and suckled again, nibbling and biting, one hand supporting that breast while his other squeezed the opposite nipple. She moaned louder.

He released one breast and reached between her legs. She oozed lust. His fingers traced around her vulva, stroked her labia, pressed inside her wetness, one finger, then two, then three. His thumb circled her stiff button. She groaned.

Marsala slipped from Iano and knelt on the pallet. He stepped to her, his cock in her face. She looked up, smiled, and swallowed him.

Fuck, this is what the Queen and I were doing not twelve hours ago, Iano thought. And the Princess, at this time yesterday. And look where that got me!

Her talented lips and tongue brought his scintillating sword to vein-popping arousal. She pulled away and changed position, crouching on the pallet, her head on her crossed arms, her butt high in the air. She looked over her shoulder at him. Her expression was serious, and hungry.

“We may not have much time, sir. Fuck me. Fuck me hard and fast. Do not be gentle. And squeeze my teats. Hard. Now, sir. Fuck me.” She stared at him.

Iano knee-walked to her fairly smooth, pleasantly plump buttocks and slapped one, then the other. Marsala gasped each time. He slapped them again, then grasped her baby-wide hips and pushed smoothly inside. He leaned closer, cupped her dangling breasts, and pinched her nubs. She gasped again.

“Like this, mistress Marsala?” he purred in her ear. He squeezed harder.

She wanted a rough fuck? She got it.

No gentle preliminaries. No slow climb to the heights of ecstasy. Only a savage animal pounding. Slap-slap-slap of thighs-on-butt became slam-slam-slam. He shoved in; she shoved back, and growled. Her breasts were excellent handholds. He twisted her nips; she squalled.

Marsala bit her forearm to muffle her stream of screams as he slammed her to repeated orgasms. She drew her own blood and almost passed out when his final massive lunge loosed his noble spray, filling her still-fertile womb with his energetic, living seed. Perhaps she would bear Centero another child after all! Miracle!

Iano rolled off his hostess. She fell to her side. Both sweated and panted. After a minute, she scrunched against him, her head at his groin. Her dark eyes took his.

“A bit messy here, sir.”

Her tongue traced his drooping, drenched dick. Her lips licked under his foreskin, slurped his wet dickhead, teased his sensitive pee-hole, then kissed his shaft.

“Thank you, sir, that was exactly what I needed. Centero just hasn’t the drive for than any more. He much prefers I do all the work, bouncing on him. Thank you for fucking me silly.”

“The pleasure was all mine, mistress. Any time, any time…”

She stood, wetted the cloth again, wiped herself clean, then splashed and bent to clean the goo from Iano’s groin. With another piece of cloth, she wiped the sweat from her glowing flesh. Iano stood and she toweled him dry, too. She donned her robe and tied her waist sash. Iano remained naked. She hugged him, squeezed his cock, hugged him again, and stepped away.

“I must go now, count. Stay here and stay quiet. You will not be found.”

Marsala pressed a lever near the doorway’s top. The crate assembly swung open. She stepped backward into the main cellar room, her eyes upon him, and pushed the door shut.

Iano stood naked for a minute, thinking, then regained his rough garb and lay back on the pallet. The night and the morning had been tiring. He slept.


I was ready to cut off heads and hands and balls!

I glared at my sister Thalia. She sat on a divan and would not meet my eyes.

“You saw what your count was doing with Mother! You have been spending a great deal of time with the count yourself, haven’t you? Have you been acting the whore like Mother? Are you just another slut?”

Her silence was all the affirmation I needed.

I flung open the anteroom door and shouted into the corridor, “Signore Laurent!” My bailiff was instantly at my side. “Where is he?” I yelled. My bailiff shrugged.

“Highness…” he began. I hate when he calls me that in private. It means he has royally fucked up.

“Highness, the guards are conducting room-by-room searches throughout the city. The city gates were closed last night and have not been re-opened, so there is no way he could escape. He is trapped here! We shall find him.”

“These same guards who fear entering the Thieves’ Quarter?” I sneered. “These guards who can’t tell their dicks from carrots? These guards will find the maggot?”

Danilio cringed. Behind him, Thalia cringed. Fuck, what am I surrounded by?

“Every house. Every room. Every cellar. In every wagon, under every bed. Under the king’s bed! Search every mouse-hole in the city! Find him! By tonight! If you want to keep your balls, you will bring him to me before the first star is visible. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Highness. It will be done. He will be found.” Danilo scurried away.

“Rudy, Rudy,” my sluttish sister whined behind me.

I whirled and shouted, “What?”

She said nothing more. She only cried. What a weak woman!

Somebody’s balls would be chopped tonight.


“If he had any balls, he wouldn’t need to cut off other men’s.”

Quintilla heard the Crown Prince’s bailiff muttering as he passed. She went unnoticed behind a flouncy curtain in the palace hallway.

Quintilla had dressed in her courtly finest and strolled the palace. She asked innocent questions, overheard too-loud gossip and barked commands, saw the broken-anthill scuffle of activity among troops and their officers. So, she thought, self-proclaimed ‘count’ Iano at least was not lying about his danger.

She saw the Crown Prince himself in a rage, his face bright red, his fat jowls quivering obscenely as he ranted. Maybe the count’s story is true. Orders and curses referred to his name and title. She had stopped at her hideaway; his pouch indeed contained precious jewels.

Ladies in court chattered the latest rumors: a Queen and Princess, disgraced; that handsome Savoyard count, targeted; senior guards officers, terrified; the Crown Prince, apoplectic; the King, unawares; and so much sex!

Quintilla learned what she needed at the palace. The search, as intensive as the sloppy city guards could muster, moved through the city. They would likely not reach her neighborhood for at least an hour. She had time for preparations.

She changed from her ‘noble’ garb back at her hideaway, then slipped through the Thieves’ Quarter and left a sign for her lackeys, a signal to lay low for now; the city was much too hot for more banditry. She would only face her team when she was masked. Now, barefaced, she scratched chalk on a wall that any passerby could see but only her crew would understand. They would hopefully notice it, and survive.

She gathered other information too, information that would be valuable later.


Quintilla made her way home. Marsala told her that Iano remained below.

The cell door opened. Iano snored. The door closed. Quintilla shook him awake. He jumped up, startled. He had dreamt of being devoured by spiders.

“Shhh,” Quintilla cautioned, “the searchers will be here soon, but we are safe.”

She sat on the pallet. He sat beside her. She took his hand and spoke softly.

“I guess you weren’t lying about last night. The city is swarming. The prince is livid. The king is clueless. Your jewels are real. And I know a few other things, enough to start my plan. A plan that keeps you safely in the city and leads me to the throne.”

“A plan? What…?”

“Do you speak the Provençal dialect? Can you pretend to be from the west, not from your Savoy home? You sound almost Genovese now.”

He shifted his speech pattern. “Yes, of course, I have spent much time there.”

“Excellent,” she fluently replied in the same dialect, “then we shall have no trouble at all. We merely need to become different people. You know how to behave as a count. You will teach me to behave properly. We shall adopt secure disguises and enter the city as fine foreigners. We will be honored guests at court. I will win the Crown Prince’s heart. We shall dispose of his parents and I will be queen. Then we shall dispose of Prince Rudolph the Red and I will take you as my consort. We will rule this kingdom in glory and splendor. How does that sound to you?”

Iano thought it sounded a bit mad… but maybe…

“I have two questions. How do we get out of here, and who do we become? Too many people here know me.”

“Escape is the easy part. I know of tunnels under the city walls. We can leave any night. And our new identities? I shall be a Provençal countess. With a tonsure, a robe, painful sandals, and foreign speech, you will be my spiritual counselor and chaperone. Hmmm, I’ll a handmaid, too. I know where to find a likely girl – at Lady Love’s whorehouse down by the port.”

“Painful sandals…??”

“Your walk will be different – not your noble’s stride and your horseman’s posture. You will move like a different person. Stoop slightly. Always speak with a strong accent and a pebble in each cheek. You’ll eat more, fatten your face a little. Nobody will recognize you. Your own mother would wonder who you are.”

The regular cooperage pounding up above was interrupted by a different clangor, booted footsteps stomping and echoing, and shouts.

“The searchers are here,” Quintilla whispered. “We must be quiet now. Hmmm, last night, we fucked pretty quietly. Did Marsala leave anything for me? We can do it again – just to pass the time till they’re done here, yes?”

And to go out with a bang if the searchers found them, she thought.

She stood and braced Iano up from the pallet. She quickly shed her clothes and tugged at his sleeve. She lay back with her legs spread while he stripped. He stood over her, watching her buoyant breasts and their pretty points; she reached to fist his cock. He was soon nicely erect. She spit in her hand and moistened her pussy.

“Get down here now,” she whispered. “Easy and quiet, remember.”

Iano laid between her inviting thighs. She held his cock to guide him. He pushed in, not too fast, not too slow, not too hard, not too gentle. He thrust in deep, and stayed. Supporting his weight on his elbows, his hands found her breasts and his tongue pierced her lips. She wrapped her legs around his back.

“Ohhh,” they murmured together.

They moved slowly, silently. More stompings and poundings above, then clatter in the cellar beyond the secret doorway. They halted all motion, all sound, but their muffled breathing. The door rattled.

“They’ve been here before,” she said in a barely-audible hiss. “They can’t find us.”

Noise in the cellar abated. Shouts and clanks faded. Stompings moved away.

“Wait,” Quintilla whispered.

They remained still for another five minutes. The normal noises above resumed, the sounds of coopers pounding metal and wood.

“Now,” she said, and thrust her hips up against his.

He resumed his in-out, in-out, the ancient rhythm of human life, the endless dance that drives and sustains our species. Faster, and harder, and deeper, and intensely, oh so strong, so vital, so glorious. THIS is all that is important in human life. THIS is why we live – we celebrate life by working to create new life. And to have fun.

Her groans faded in his mouth. He was almost done, she could tell. Keeping her legs wrapped, keeping him impaled in her, she rolled them both over, to their sides, then onto his back. She bent over him. Her breasts swung to his mouth. He sucked.

Her hips flashed in ecstatic exertion. Faster, and faster, until she whimpered and shook. He grunted as he flooded her with his essence. She fell on him, her breasts crushed against him, her thighs squeezing, her lungs burning.

Have mercy, Quintilla thought, he does know how to use that cock!

Good Lord, Iano thought, this girl is such a wildcat! And we’re still alive!

She squeezed her vaginal muscles to hold his diminishing dick inside her for as long as possible. She was in no hurry to leave. He was not inclined to roll her away – her body was no burden atop him. Her mouth found his. Their tongues danced.

Eventually he slipped from her. She grabbed the cloth lying beside the pallet and wiped the juices from their joining. She rolled them aside. They lay together, face to face, body to body, lightly sheened with sweat.

“I must go, to gather tools and materials. It’s time to start your transformation. Youdo agree with my plan, yes?”

The secret door swung open silently.

“What plan, dear?” Marsala asked.

The house mistress looked down at the naked lounging lovers. Neither made any attempt to cover themselves. Quintilla raised herself on one elbow. Her breasts swayed over Iano.

“Keep this quiet. Only the three of us can know, lest we be betrayed and lost. This is our greatest secret, have mercy.”

“Have mercy,” Iano and Marsala chanted together. The vow was taken.

“Our Count here,” Quintilla said, pinching Iano’s nearest nipple, “will provide my entry into the Crown Prince’s court. We will change our appearance now and leave the city tonight. With our transformations, none here will recognize us. We’ll return soon, me as a foreign noble, him as my priest-protector, and with a handmaiden, one of Lady Love’s easy-girls. We shall have no trouble insinuating ourselves into court – the Crown Prince is always desperate for pliable women because those here are repelled by his fatness and smell. I shall show no such repulsion. He is not very bright. I shall win his heart. Yes, I will soon be wed to the Crown Prince.”

Quintilla grinned evilly. “And then the changes will come.”


The transformations began in the small hidden cell.

Quintilla dressed and left for her hideaway to retrieve clothes from her costume stash, and all the jewels and coins hidden there. Marsala undressed and fucked Iano again, another hot, fast, fierce, animalistic fuck, slamming her cunt onto him, and then shaved his head, leaving a monkish tonsure.

She shaved away his other body hair, too, leaving him nearly egg-smooth. She sucked his cock to keep him stiff and steady while shaving his groin bare. That stiff cock could not go to waste; another fuck. She pulled off him after his final spew.

Iano sat on the pallet, dazed. This was her opening. She quickly slashed his arms.

“AAARRGGHH!” he shouted before her hand covered his mouth. He bit her palm, not gently. “You heathen bitch! Why did you do that?”

“Disguise,” she replied calmly, whetting her blade. “The young Comte was not scarified; his women then would not recognize his arms now. Has any of them seen your naked back? Yes? Well, then,” she said. Her fist thumped the side of his head.

He was laying on his belly hog-tied when he came to. His mouth was gagged. Marsala, still naked, held a small whip, longer than a riding crop. Its end was tied in nasty little barbed knots.

“Your monkish order practices mortification of the flesh. All who see you will expect self-flagellation scars. You must look the part.” She licked her lips and commenced.

Marsala lashed the bound count moderately, steadily, with neither enthusiasm nor trepidation. This was merely a task to be performed. All along the back of his torso and butt and and his legs, an irregular pattern, skin sliced from his flesh in random patterns, like the map of a lost world.

She rolled him over and started on his front. Calves; thighs, groin; hips; belly; chest; and along his arms again, overlaying the slash marks.

Iano has ceased screaming into his gag some time back. Unconsciousness eased his hurts… for now. Marsala’s application of a stinging wash of herbs steeped in alcohol quickly revived him, painfully. He strained fruitlessly against his restraints.

Her final touch: the razor again, faintly slashing his ruddy cheeks. Another stinging rinse. The muscles in his neck stood out like a ship’s rigging as he struggled.

Marsala had cleaned and dressed before Quintilla’s return. The girl looked with satisfaction at her stepmother’s work.

“Yes, very nice. As long as he speaks with an accent, even the Princess would not know him. And we will eat well the next few weeks, fattening him up a bit, giving him a totally different body. Yes, he is well transformed, have mercy.”

Have mercy indeed, Iano thought in a tortured stupor. Fucking mercy.

Marsala granted him some mercy with a flask of brandy to lessen his pain. Then she pinched his larynx, to permanently alter his voice. He howled again.

Quintilla’s transformation was less painful. Marsala shaved away some of the hair at her temples, giving her the high-browed look of a western lady. Rubbing with abrasive leaves smoothed her face and neck skin; skillful eyebrow plucking changed her facial contour. One bit of pain: Marsala broke Quintilla’s nose, then re-set it at a subtle angle. No, she did not look like the earlier Quintilla.

Iano was almost human again by nightfall. Marsala led him to the waste bucket before he could befoul himself and then cleaned him. His cock was not responsive at the time; he hurt too much. Quintilla came with their travel gear. She brought victuals for their supper and for their days on the road.

Night fell. They passed through a tunnel and were off.

And the Crown Prince’s bailiff lost his balls that night.


They began with the monk-and-nun trick. Quintilla wore the robe of a nurturing order; she led a face-bandaged blind monk along side paths from the small realm’s capitol to its nearest port. A few gold coins passed to Lady Love bought the body and services of Emilia, a young Provençal whore.

“She is just what we need,” Quintilla whispered to Iano. “She could have bought her way out of here long ago but she felt obligated to stay with her mistress. Now I own her, and she will do as I say – so long as it’s in her interest. I’ll just have to make sure of that.”

“Most important,” she added, “she is from our supposed home, and she sounds and looks perfect for her role. Through her, I shall become Doros, Contessa of Lorgues.”

Quintilla and Emilia were both of medium height, a few inches shorter than Iano, all with dark hair and eyes and olive Mediterranean complexions. Iano had the visage of a hawk, sharp and piercing – but offset by his scarring. Quintilla’s oval face peered casually at everything, taking it all in. Emilia’s heart-shaped face bore a constant smile, her mask against a fickle world.

The jewels the Princess had given the Count were precious but not distinctive. A discreet goldsmith in the port quickly put them in minimal but elegant settings. Quintilla would need them in order to pass as a Contessa.

They left the port on their westward trek. Emilia played a nun role also until they were a day from familiar environs and eyeballs. Then all donned simple peasant robes. Iano wore a wide-brim had to obscure his features from those they encountered.

Iano kept his rapier hidden but accessible beneath his robe. Just in case…

They moved off the main path in the middle of the second day to stop at a secluded hot spring. All soaked their aching, smelly bodies; the misty water leeched away their fatigue and sweat. An hour in the water was enough. They threw a blanket on the ground and lay together.

“I am so happy to be with you, missy and sir,” Emilia said. She lay flat on her back between Quintilla and Iano, breasts pointing skyward, eyes closed. One hand reached to Quintilla’s muff, the other to Ian’s cock. “And now we are clean enough for… almost anything.” Her fingers stroked her companions. “Any pleasure.”

“Like this?” Iano asked. He scooted so his cock was at her mouth.

“And this?” Quintilla pushed Emilia’s legs apart and put her face in the girl’s groin.

“Just so,” Emilia said, swallowing the proffered man-meat and groaning when her mistress’s tongue teased her labia. Emilia sucked skillfully and handled the count’s shaft and scrotum like the pro she was. Quintilla exhibited her cunt-licking skills and generously kneaded her handmaid’s breasts.

Iano indeed knew many ways to pleasure women. He re-arranged their group with his head between Quintilla’s thighs. Each tongued and sucked the genitalia facing them. Iano’s tongue examined Quintilla’s mysteries, probing, tracing, and teasing, circling her excited love-button, much as Quintilla stimulated trembling Emilia, almost driven to distraction as she bobbed on the noble’s nimrod.

The girls shook with many small orgasms. Iano was in no danger of cumming soon. They could keep that up for quite a while – and they did.

“This is fun,” Iano growled, pulling out of the triad, “but I want to fuck someone.”

“Fuck ME,” Emilia said, rolling on her back, “and come here.” She pulled Quintilla onto her face.

Emilia’s sturdy slender legs waved to the sky. Iano was between her thighs, fucking nicely, steadily, sucking Quintilla’s breasts while Emilia’s tongue pleasured her treasure. The three got into a very nice rhythm. Both girls came and came.

“Enough of this,” Iano grunted, “I need two pussies. Now.”

He lay on his back, his cunt-splitter a tower of strength. He pulled Quintilla to straddle his hips and Emilia to straddle his head; both faced forward. His tongue found Emilia’s luscious pearl; his hands held her breasts and nipped her nipples; her thighs pressed his ears, and shook. His cock was the target of Quintilla’s energetic exertions; she bounced and twisted and bounced again; his hips thrust up to meet every down-slam and corkscrew-drop.

Quintilla leaned forward to bite Emilia’s neck; her hands replaced Iano’s on the handmaid’s breasts. Iano grasped Quintilla’s boobs, then slid down to steady her hyperactive hips as her pounding increased. Emilia moaned softly, incessantly.

Quintilla cried out when Iano’s upthrusts peaked and he came hotly into her; her own climax answered his, a long answer, endless-seeming hours compressed into many long seconds.

The three collapsed, gasping. Iano pulled the three together. Their tongues joined a three-way battle for… not victory, but satisfaction, completion. Togetherness.

“Back in the hot water a bit, yes?” Emilia suggested. “I think I have more muscle strains to soak away.” She giggled. “And a new layer of sweat.”


As they journeyed, Iano schooled Quintilla in the ways of nobility and especially of more intelligent noblewomen. When and how to be haughty or demure or brisk or seductive or cutting. What attitudes to display and reject. How to walk, to hold her head and shoulders, to project her boobs and sway her ass, to freeze with a glance. How to be a high-class bitch.

They stayed in village inns some nights, or rough in the forest if no inns were near. For two weeks they walked or sometimes caught rides with passing carts, paid for with a small copper coin. They reached Emilia’s home, the tiny county of Lorgues.

“I left here long ago. I was so young and I looked different. Few here will recall me. Those that will are trustworthy old friends. They can help us obtain what we need.”

What they needed were clothes and accessories suitable to their supposed roles: the minor Contessa, her handmaid, and her priest-protector. They also needed information of the real Contessa, she whom Quintilla would impersonate.

“She never ventures forth. She stays in her wing of the palace, playing card games, drinking watered wine, and diddling with her maids,” they learned from Matilla, Emilia’s oldest and best friend. “She has no interest in men, especially not the Count. Few outside the court know her at all. I have seen her twice. And you, Quintilla,” she gestured, “do look rather like her.” She repeated hours of gossip.

“What else can you tell us of her?” Emilia asked.

Matilla looked serious. “Why do you want to know this? Are you playing some game here? Something dangerous?”

“Nothing around here,” Emilia laughed. “I’m not sure what Quintilla has planned but we’ll be gone immediately. We won’t bring any trouble.”

Quintilla shook her smiling head silently. Matilla had to be satisfied with this.

Quintilla had only shared a misleading plan with her handmaid. They would return to her home realm as a noble entourage and worm their way into the palace. They would be housed and fed by the court, living in luxury beyond their station. At the first word of suspicion, they would decamp for another realm, another court. They would be freeloaders on royalty and nobility. It was a not-uncommon practice.

Emilia knew not to disclose any of this.

One contact provided appropriate local clothes at a reasonable price. Another provided a trio of riding horses and their tack. Another found suitable accessories: small weapons, tools, utensils, adornments – artifacts of a minor noble’s life.

They rode from town looking like prosperous peasants. They stayed in those roles halfway back to their destination. They stopped at an abandoned forest cabin near an unmarked border to complete their transformations.

Emilia became the perfect handmaid dressed for travel and work. Iano became the scarred monk-chaperone with a sturdy sword strapped to his side. And Quintilla’s noble garb marked her as a woman of some small importance, not to be trifled with.

They passed through the gates of the city Iano and Quintilla had fled only a few weeks before. Nobody paid them any particular attention.


Who is this lovely creature that has entered my court and my life? Oh, a Countess from a minor realm, far over the western mountains. A charming sylph with exquisite manners and a tinkling laugh, speaking with an enticing accent of far-off court affairs, intrigues, and absurdities. A beautiful mystery with a slightly bent nose.

And not many nobles visit our court. This is a rather remote, obscure kingdom.

Why is she here? She says she was but briefly married to the last Count who was overthrown and killed by his brother. She has fled with those most loyal to her: her maid and her monk. She has no means or desire to regain her county. She is an exile, a vagabond of necessity.

I am wary of that monk. He seems vaguely familiar, but I do not really recognize him. I am sure I would know those scars, that scowl, that gravelly voice.

I had the chamberlain assign them a small but brilliant suite of rooms in the palace’s guest wing. With any luck, and my force of personality, I’ll have divine Doros, Contessa de Lorgues in my own rooms before too long.

Why am I becoming obsessed with her? Well, she seems to like me. So many of the women here avoid me, even despise me. I approach, at my best; they make excuses, and depart. This is not how the future King should be treated! I could compel them… but then they’re no more than my uncle’s whores.

Doros stands near me. She listens to me, laughs with me, and sometimes touches my arm to make a point. She is by no means immodest, yet she seems truly drawn to me. I do not feel the hidden greed of a gold-digger.

But I am no fool. Plots abound. Any could be working against me. I have instructed my new bailiff Giorgio to post spies to blanket her small entourage. Where do they go? To whom do they talk? Do any sneak in or out? Do they conspire?

Thus far, they seem innocent. The handmaid is a fetching thing who seems to know her place; the spies say she only consorts with other maids and underlings. The monk accompanies Doros, armed, whenever she leaves the palace. He seemingly speaks to nobody. In the palace, he stays in his room, associating with nobody, except for his time in chapel, praying alone. Nobody approaches their suite door save the palace servants.

Doros gossips with the ladies of the court, even with my sister and mother. All seem enchanted by her. She inquires of local affairs but speaks only of her own former court, and her dreams and fantasies, and improbable, salacious tales.

I have my own salacious dreams. I can see her as worthy to be a queen. No dowery, alas, but she seems not be be extravagance. Not a high-maintenance woman. Not a treasury-draining queen.

A queen. My queen. King Rudolph III and Queen Doros. I can see banners flying over our wedding. I can hear horns blasting hosannas to our royal coupling.

I am becoming excited. I think I’ll go head-fuck that kitchen wench.


The plan of Quintilla (now Doros) proceeded smoothly. She and Iano (now Friar Garond) and Emilia (now Marya) became integral to the court. In court, Doros rarely left the side of the Crown Prince except to gossip with the ladies. Friar Garond was rarely seen and rarely missed. Marya was just another serving-girl.

Those were their public personas. In the privacy of their suite, they fucked a lot.

Rudolph took Doros aside in a bustling corridor.

“My dear Doros, I’ll ask again if I can show you my chambers. I have some art you may be interested in viewing.” The Prince hid his frustration.

“Oh Rudy,” Doros laughed, “it would not be proper for us to go alone. Not yet. Let me call Marya to accompany us.”

“Not yet? Then when would propriety be met?” Was his force of personality insufficient to seduce her?

She stroked his arm. “For wedded mates, nothing is improper.”

That was enough. His mind was blown. He proposed marriage. She accepted.

Events flowed inexorably from there. The public proclamations and celebrations. The planning for the ceremony and its following fete. The exaltation of the lovely consort-in-waiting.

The wedding was stately, ponderous. The King and Queen sat near the front, beaming. The old bishop droned on for an hour before finally joining the flower- and ribbon-bedecked couple in holy matrimony.

Horns blared. Drums pounded. Cheers arose. Marsala stood in the cheering crowd, her eyes glowing.

The wedding party moved from the chapel to the palace’s main hall. Wall sconces only barely competed with the brilliant candle-lit chandelier hanging in the center of the hall. A formal feast would be held later but for now, tables groaned under vast buffets of foods and drinks. An ensemble in a corner played soft, lively music.

The bailiff Giorgio’s spies were good but Quintilla (now Doros) was better. Nobody had noticed her innocent chats with local goodwives – such as her stepmother Marsala. They passed a few brief words. Thus were arrangements made.

The arrangements came to fruition when the wedding ball was at its height. The ensemble played royal dance music. The Queen dragged the stumbling King into the middle of the floor, and they danced. Danced in small circles, the crowd watching and applauding. Danced into the middle of the floor. Danced directly under the massive, brilliant, candle-lit chandelier.

And then, tragedy! A creaking sound was heard, and a rustle. And the chandelier fell. Fell right atop the dancing monarchs, crushing them into splintered fragments of human flesh. Their royal raiments caught fire immediately. Their corpses burned.

Gaiety turned instantly to panic. Screams arose. The crowd fled, trampling the slow and weak underfoot.

And the pair of Quintilla the bandit princess’s lackey thugs who had broken the chandelier’s supports stealthily ghosted away across the great hall’s roof.

Horrified Rudolph and tearful Doros stood on a podium above the confusion on the hall’s floor. A phalanx of guards quickly ringed them protectively. Rudolph’s bailiff Giorgio leaped into the circle.

“Highness, highness,” he sobbed, “the King and Queen are dead! You are now the sovereigns! We cannot await a coronation. You must assume the throne now!”

He led the guarded royals to the throne room. The bishop had been dragged in. He was forced to perform an instant ceremony of anointment and confirmation, witnessed by those nobles and courtiers who had not fled the confusion. The Crown Prince was now King; his new consort was now Queen.

Just as she had planned.

The following days were in turmoil. Courtiers organized both a funeral and a coronation. Propriety demanded their order: mourn first, then celebrate.

The charred remains of the late monarchs were laid to rest amid pomp and dirges. A week of national mourning was proclaimed. This mainly resulted in barkeeps raising their prices. They did not drop their rates again until after the crowning fete.

The coronation of the new King and Queen was accompanied by turgid speeches and blaring horns, of course. Feasts were set out. Bread and meat were thrown to the crowds of peasantry thronging the capitol. Beer flowed in by the tens of gallons and urine poured out just as fast. A grand time was had by all.

After the festivities, a solemn moment: the new King and Queen visited the royal mausoleum to pay tribute to their predecessors. Queen Doros knelt to lay floral wreaths around the crosses at the heads of their marble tomb. King Rudolph III stood, then bent to place a royal fleur-de-lis atop their wide, white slab.

And a large chunk of marble fell from the ceiling and squished him like a bug.

Quintilla’s same two lackeys snuck away again.

Another funeral. Another week of mourning. More overpriced alcohol. Princess Thalia thought it prudent to visit a neighboring country.

National mourning passed quickly. Hey, there’s always another monarch! Queen Doros must remain in black for a year. No problem; she had always preferred black.

Queen Doros (formerly Quintilla) and her trusted companions Marya (formerly Emilia) and Friar Garond (formerly Iano) gathered in the royal chambers, alone but for Marsala. All were naked. The friar had fucked the ladies in various ways, and the ladies had pleasured each other, to their preferences. These were celebratory fucks. The plan had succeeded! They had the power! The kingdom was theirs.

Well, some of theirs.

The Queen deigned to pour precious wines for her naked companions. She handed a sparkling goblet to each.

“To my stepmother – Marsala, you are a true jewel of a woman!” They toasted.

“To my handmaid – Emilia, you are more a sister than a servant!” They giggled.

“To my support – Iano, all this is only possible because of you.” They nodded.

She drank a good mouthful of the spicy wine. They followed suit.

Iano felt numb and dizzy a few minutes later. The scene of naked flesh and bright eyes swirled before him. He could not stay upright. He fell over.

He tried to speak. No words came out. His thoughts were scrambled.

“Yes, Iano, all because of you. But you didn’t really think I’d let you live, once I attained power, did you? Always seeking to take and drain high ladies. Living by your charm and cunning. Willing to engage in any subversion. Yes, your cock was really nice. But there are more cocks around. Goodbye, Iano. Pleasant dreams.”

She closed the lids on his already-frosted eyes.

Emilia also felt queasy. What…?? She fell. Her poison was slower.

The Queen clutched her naked stepmother.

“Like I said, Marsala, you will always be at my right hand. I can trust nobody else. We are family. All the rest are… others.”

“And what of your family now? Of your father, and brothers and sisters?”

“Bring them into the palace. Give father and the brothers all the dancing girls they want. My half-sisters can learn the ways of the court. Nobody else will be close.”

The Queen looked into a dreamy distance.

“And then, there will be men for us. Many men. All the men we could want. Sturdy guards. Athletic officers. Ass-kissing noblemen. Unseated princes coming to seek my hand. Amoral priests seeking positions. Lusty plowmen. Whomever we want.”

“Save a few for me,” her stepmother laughed.

“And there all those arrogant oafs to destroy. Boastful barons, rebellious lords, those bankers with their usurious rates, asshole abbots. Men with delusions of adequacy. They’ll get fucked, one way or another.”

The Queen dreamed of enslaving legions of studly young men for her personal pleasure. Yes, she would do much in her long reign.


A look into the court of Rodrigo Borgia aka Pope Alexander VI and his daughter Lucrezia. “Oh daddy!”

Rod grinned as his fat cock slipped in and out of hs luscious daughter Lucy’s cunt.

“Yeah, baby, give it up for me!”

It’s good to be pope.