My Queen


My Queen is one blue whale. She’s neat and ignorant and has all the requirements of a queen. The other day she came to my house and obliged me to kiss her feet and I, the last assistant of the last clerk on the court, told her: "Of course, my Queen!" and I kissed her fins, or whatever the thing that whales have at the end is called. But, when I insinuated something about penetration, she screamed: "You traitor of the Crown!"
She called the Vizier and the guards, but the guards and the Vizier didn’t come along. Then I continued kissing her fins until she fell asleep. We had erotic dreams, copulating wildly in the Dead Sea, heavenly orgasms in the heaving of our drenched loins.
The sun woke us up, pouring through the cracks in the curtains. My Queen ordered me to serve her breakfast and to wipe the sleep from her eyes. I wiped the sleep from her eyes, I served her breakfast and, for good measure, I rubbed her scapulas. She stood up, had a look of her nudity in the mirror, got dressed and said goodbye.

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