Luckily We Have Empire- Part 1 of 3

The Hickey

Last night, in the concealed darkness of a downtown evening, a girl, whose name has not been released by the authorities, sucked on her boy so passionately that she left permanent marks on his neck, arms and chest.

Upon hearing this news during her weekly briefing on the goings-on in her majesty's colonies, the Queen Mum gasped in horror and peed herself. Luckily, Charles Tupper, her horse trainer, was there with a bedpan and was able to conserve most of the yellowish urine for her next physical examination.

"Good Lord, Charles, what are you doing down there between my legs?" The Mum was heard screeching. "If you're going to be down there, you might as well do it right, like that girl in the colonies, goodness, she knew what she was doing, didn't she Charles?"

Charles, looking up at her yellowed, aging long-panties, could only whisper, breathlessly, "Yes, she really has the right shit, I mean, stuff, doesn’t she? Have you ever had someone suck on your neck, your majesty?"

Confused, The Mum looked down at this man, her horse trainer, and asked, somewhat incredulously, "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Charles? Have you been harming the horses?"

"Oh no, dear Mum, not at all, their necks are much too high for my tastes. But yours, on the other hand, is just my height..."

The suggestion lay heavy in the musty, stale air of the powder room. The Queen Mum stood there, upright, thinking about what mascara she should wear to her afternoon tea to cover up her flustered cheeks, while Charles, kneeling between The Mum’s feet, looked down into the ground at the remaining pool of liquid, his heart pounding so hard he was afraid The Mum would feel a tremor through her long-panties. His thoughts wandered to Wanamaker, their prize-winning filly, and the feel of her fine neck hair against his smooth, supple lips. His heart raced faster, and a copious amount of blood fled to his extremities, hardening them in a way he only experienced around The Mum and Wanamaker.

Why couldn’t that filly be rubbing up against The Mum as I looked up her skirt, he thought to himself. “Is that wrong?” He heard himself say this out loud, and felt mortified. His face turned purple, the same colour, in fact, as the many varicose veins running up and down The Mum’s inner thighs.

“Oh no Charles, this feels just right. Just right. All I need is a little bit more sugar in my tea, if you know what I mean, dear…” She purposefully let her last word linger there, like a hanging chad, a flirtatious exhilaration not often seen in 105 year old monarchs. “Yes, indeed dear, more sugar would be fine, I already lost all of my real teeth, so there’s really no chance of rotting them anymore, thank Jesus.”

Charles’ heart beat even faster, until it beat no more. The thought of yellowing long-panties, purple varicose veins, Wanamaker’s brown fleshy fur and The Mum spraying urine for him, was too much. He lay there, in The Mum’s pee, his body flailed about, face down, leaning against The Mum’s inner calf.

His last thought was of Wanamaker galloping valiantly through an open meadow near Inverness, slowing down at the approach of The Mum over a green knoll, pulling up beside her, neighing sweetly as she lay her head on The Mum’s broad left shoulder. The look on The Mum’s face was of pure bliss, a smile spread across her blushing face from cheek to cheek. They stood like that for what seemed to be hours in his mind, but was really only three seconds, until his heart beat for the last time, sending him into cardiogenic shock.