A woman was in the tub.

She was on the edge— not in the water, but sitting on the rim. Her legs were spread. One foot was on the floor. The other was on the edge of the tub. Her skirt was hiked up— the fabric bunched at her waist. Her pussy was exposed.

It was hairy.

The hair was dark. Thick. It covered her mound, her lips, the crease of her thighs. It was wild— untrimmed, untamed, the hair of a woman who had never cared. But she was trimming it. The razor was in her hand. She was shaving— carefully, precisely, the blade gliding over the skin, removing the hair in long strokes. The hair fell onto the tile. The skin beneath was pale. Soft.

She was spreading her pussy with her other hand. Her fingers held the lips apart— the inner lips visible, pink, the skin smooth. She was shaving around them. Careful not to cut. The blade traced the curve of her labia. The hair fell away. The lips were exposed— bare, smooth, glistening with the water from the tub.

Raven looked.

"What are you doing?" he said.

The woman looked up.

She blinked. Her eyes were dark. Her face was round. Her hair was wet— dark, hanging in ropes around her face. Her body was visible beneath the wet shirt— her breasts large, heavy, the nipples stiff from the steam. Her stomach was round. Soft. Her thighs were thick.

She saw him.

Her eyes went wide. She trembled. She dropped the razor. It clattered on the tile. She stood— her legs unfolding, her skirt falling, her pussy disappearing beneath the fabric. She was across the room in two steps.

She hugged him.

Her arms went around his neck. Her body pressed against his. Her breasts— large, heavy, the nipples stiff through the wet fabric— mashed against his chest. Her face buried in his neck. She was crying.

"You are here," she sobbed. "You are here. You came back."

Raven’s hands went to her ass. Over her skirt. He gripped the cheeks— round, full, heavy. He squeezed. His fingers sank into the flesh. The skirt fell— the fabric sliding down her hips, exposing her bare, freshly-shaved pussy. The lips were smooth. Pink. Slightly parted. The inner lips peeked out— wet, slick, glistening.

He held her. His hands were on her bare ass. His coat was open. Her body was pressed against his.

"Sorry I am late," he said. His voice was quiet. Close. Spoken into her wet hair. "I fucked the Queen."

She pulled back. Her dark eyes blinked. Wet. Confused.

"What?" she mumbled. "Really?"

"Yes," he said. He said it the way one says "I had lunch." Casual. Conversational. "She has a mole near her pussy."

The woman stared.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, she does."

"Have you seen it?" Raven asked.

She nodded.

"I was a maid," she said. Her voice was quiet. Sad. The voice of a woman remembering something she would rather forget. "In the Crown Palace. When she came— the first night, after the marriage— I saw her. Getting fucked by the king."

The Flashback.

She had been a maid. Seventeen. Thin. Pretty. Her dark hair had been in a braid. Her uniform had been gray. She had been carrying a tray— wine, cheese, bread. The king’s chambers. Late at night. The corridor was dark. The candles were low.

She had been thinking about the king. How charming he was. How handsome. How his smile made the maids blush. She had been thinking about this as she walked down the corridor, the tray balanced on her hand, her footsteps soft on the stone.

She heard the screams.

Through the door. Through the thick oak. Through the stone. The screams of a woman. High. Sharp. Pained. The screams of someone being hurt.

She stopped.

She set the tray down. She crept to the window— the high window, the one that let in air, that was too small for a person but large enough for sound and light. She pressed her face to the glass.

She looked.

The Queen— the new Queen, the princess, the girl who had arrived two days ago in a white dress— was on the bed. She was naked. Her golden hair was loose. Her wrists were tied— silk scarves, bound to the bedposts. Her ankles were tied— spread, each ankle lashed to a bedpost, her legs wide, her body open.

The King was standing beside the bed. He was clothed. His shirt was on. His trousers were open. His cock was out— seven inches, erect, the head dark. He was holding something in his hand.

A cucumber.

Green. Thick. Longer than his cock. He was pushing it into her pussy.

The maid watched. The Queen’s pussy was visible— the lips stretched around the vegetable, the green shaft sliding in and out, the wetness visible, the sound audible even through the glass.

SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK—

"AAAHH—! Please—! No more—! It is too big—! Please—! AHH—!"

The King pushed the cucumber deeper. The Queen’s body arched. Her back lifted off the bed. Her breasts— enormous, heavy— swung with each thrust of the vegetable. Her nipples were stiff. Dark. Her face was wet with tears. Her mouth was open. Her tongue was out.

The maid saw the Queen’s pussy. Up close. Through the glass. The lips were stretched. The clit was visible— swollen, red, being ground by the shaft of the cucumber. And near the pussy— on the left side, on the outer lip— a mole. Small. Dark. Round.

PAH PAH PAH—

The King was thrusting the cucumber in and out. His hand was on it— his fist wrapped around the base, the shaft disappearing into the Queen’s cunt, the lips pulling and stretching with each movement. The sound was wet. Loud. The sound of a vegetable fucking a woman who does not want it.

"Please—! Stop—! It hurts—! You are hurting me—! AH—!"

The King pulled the cucumber out. It was slick. Wet. He dropped it on the bed. He slapped her ass. Hard.

PAH—

The Queen screamed. The cheek bounced. The flesh rippled. The King grabbed her hips. He positioned himself. He pushed his cock in— seven inches, one thrust, all the way.

PAH—

"AAAHH—!!"

He fucked her. Hard. Fast. His hips slammed against her ass. His cock plunged in and out. The bed creaked. The posts shook. The scarves strained. The Queen’s body jerked with each thrust— her breasts swinging, her nipples leaking, her face contorted, her mouth open, her eyes rolled.

PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—

"AAAHH—! HNNNGHH—! PLEASE—! STOP—! IT HURTS—! AH—! AH—! AH—!"

The King’s balls slapped against her ass. His hands gripped her hips. His fingers dug into the flesh. He fucked her like cattle— tied, spread, used. The Queen was crying. Sobbing. Her tears fell on the silk. Her body was trembling. Her pussy was bleeding— the hymen torn, the blood mixing with the seed that was already inside her.

The maid watched. She could not look away. She saw the Queen’s face— the pain, the shame, the helplessness. She saw the King’s face— the coldness, the detachment, the enjoyment. She saw the Queen’s pussy— stretched, swollen, bleeding, the mole on the outer lip visible through the blood and the seed.

She turned away.

She picked up the tray. She walked down the corridor. She did not look back.