"I've got one."
"Sssshhhh."
"But..."
"What have I said about when I'm reading?"
"I'm not to disturb you when you're reading."
"What am I doing?"
"You're reading, but..."
"Look, how many times do I have to tell you that I really don't care about your puerile computer game adventures. I don't care about winged sandals, poisoned or unpoisoned chalices, and I certainly don't care about grails holy, knots gordian or swords damoclean, so I really don't care about whatever it is you've got."
"It's not puerile."
"Still don't care. Still trying to read."
"Anyway, it's nothing to do with World of Warcraft."
"For fucks sake. Reading."
"I've got a topic for one of your talky things. Thought you might be interested in a little fantasy role-playing of your own."
"Really? You've really come up with something all by yourself."
"Yep."
"And would this something have anything to do with Catherine the Great, Empress of All Russia, born 1729, crowned Empress 1762, and died 1796?"
"Yes, but. How?"
"You do know that you mumble to yourself when you're concentrating. It's almost endearing. Okay, I can see you're itching to tell me. What about Catherine would make a good role-play?"
"Well, she was sexually voracious throughout her life. Right up until her death. Had many, many different lovers and when she was sixty she took up with Prince Platon Alexandrovich Zubov who was twenty-two. You've still got to do the 'Mature' category for your Omni-thingy and I thought this would fit the bill."
"So basically I'd be some gout-ridden, fat, saggy-tittied, old crone and you'd be a strutting young virile peacock with a resplendent display of tail feathers that you constantly flutter and fan in a needy attention-seeking sort of way."
"I wouldn't really put it like that. You're not really fat as such."
"As such?"
"Perhaps a bit chunky with the, you know, lockdown pounds."
"Chunky! Is that any way to speak to the Empress of all Russia? I could have all your tail feathers plucked from your writhing flesh for such an insult, including that one you're so proud of that sticks out your front."
"This one?"
"Oh do put it away. You're embarrassing yourself."
"Why don't you come over here and put it away yourself, Empress. So what do you think? Does the decrepit, lardy-arsed, Empress of all Russians want to play hide the sausage with her stunningly handsome lover, Prince Platon Alexandrovich Zubov? It might be your last chance. At your age and in your condition who knows when you might snuff it."
"I think, little Prince, that this resplendent royal fleshiness that you're feasting your eyes on would best be described as Rubenesque and along with my alabaster skin and flushed cheeks would have been regarded as a picture of health and desirability. Besides, you do know what was rumoured to have been the cause of her death? What the eighteenth-century royal gossips said had happened?"
"No, what?"
"I can't tell you."
"What? Why? Why can't you tell me?"
"It's forbidden. You'll have to look it up on your phone."
"What do you mean?"
"Just look it up."
"Fine."
"I was right, you are quite endearing when you mumble."
"Ssshhhh, reading."
"Whatever."
"Is that true? Is that how she died? Doing that obscene, unnatural act? Crushed because of a broken harness? What are you doing now?"
"What are you doing now, Empress! The Empress is removing her panties and checking beneath her skirts for midgets, dwarves, people of restricted growth or whatever the correct phrasing is."
"I think they're referred to as little people nowadays. Why are you looking for little people beneath your skirt?"
"Empress! I won't tell you again Prince whoever you are."
"Prince Platon Alexandrovich Zubov, Empress. Are you masturbating, Empress?"
"Of course, my little Prince, I'm a renowned nympho, constantly masturbating, fingers always slick with my royal jelly, sliding into my squelching, throbbing, insatiable core. Wetness soaking my hand, rivulets running down my wrist, splatters of want and pleasure decorating my chunky thighs and ham-like arm. Thrusting and fucking and skewering as I wonder why there isn't a little person beneath my skirt."
"Should there be Empress?"
"Always. I employ a team of them. Never leave my bed-chamber without one secreted beneath my hooped petticoats, its little person mouth suckling firmly on my blood-swollen clit as it rams its entire arm into my slack, well-used cunt. Sometimes I'll command two of them down there. Have both of them stuff me full with their tiny arms as they slurp on my divine nectar and rim my oozing, cum-filled arse."
