The Queen Is the State
The statement “The Queen is the State” was an obvious truth, yet so obvious that it often failed to match reality. No matter how absolute the Queen’s sovereignty, she remained a human being who required assistance in countless matters. Such aid was, of course, an obligation for her subjects. In the elaborate language favored by scholars of law, the institution of Zylan’s Queen consisted of the Queen herself and the subjects attached to her. This also meant that Richelle could not bathe without the company of her maids.
“Is the water too hot, Your Majesty?”
“It is not.”
“Then is it too cold?”
“I said it is not……”
“Of course. It cannot be cold……”
The maid wore a troubled expression as she bent down. She dipped her hand into the water filling the red marble tub. Though her hand remained far from Richelle, he felt as though it were reaching for him.
“Your Majesty?”
The maid called out in alarm. Maids who caused trouble for the Queen’s person were often branded as traitors to the realm. Richelle knew this well and spoke.
“It is fine. The fault is not yours. I must have been…… overly sensitive.”
He was startled and ashamed by his own reaction. He could not understand why it had happened. The maid had not poisoned the bathwater, nor had she aimed for his vital points. Moreover, her arm was too short to reach them—roughly three feet.
“You seem rather tense. I shall add more hot water at once, so please immerse yourself……”
“Why would I be tense?”
“Ah……”
He had come to the bath to prepare for an important audience. He continued, “I simply wished to relax and ease my tension.”
“I spoke thoughtlessly, Your Majesty. Please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. It is only that…… I cannot seem to grow accustomed to this.”
Richelle offered a weary smile. He truly could not adapt. Only a few days had passed since he became a woman; it would have been stranger if he had already adjusted. And if he did adjust, that would be its own kind of horror.
He leaned his back against the tub wall and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Your Majesty? Your hair will fall into the water.”
“It is fine.”
“No, it is not fine……”
Memories he had never experienced informed him of the care women devoted to their hair. Princess Richelle had never concerned herself with such things, yet she knew precisely how the maids would react if she behaved “naturally.” Following what Richelle had learned, Richard spoke.
“Leave me for a moment.”
“Pardon?”
“Did you not hear me?”
“No, Your Majesty. But my duty is……”
“To assist me in bathing. And right now, leaving is the assistance I require.”
“But Your Majesty, I know better how to attend to you. It is also my duty, Your Majesty. Please do not strip me of my task.”
The maid spoke as she always had—according to the memories Richelle possessed—and Richelle had never found a way to refute such words. But now everything was different. The one speaking was not the fabricated Richelle who had never existed, but Richard, who had truly lived. There was another difference as well. Richelle had been merely a princess, but the present Richelle was the Queen (an absurd statement, yet true). He told the maid,
“This is an order.”
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
The maid lacked the courage to point out that Richelle’s command violated custom and law. Wearing an expression mingled with sorrow and shame, she bowed her head and backed away in small steps, slipping out through the red heart of the martyr. Only after the door closed did Richelle finally breathe.
He had shared beds with many women and shown his naked body to them countless times. Of course, displaying his nakedness had never felt strange. Yet now he could not grow accustomed to showing his body at all.
He glanced once more toward the door. Convinced that no one remained, he finally lowered his gaze.
Just as he was accustomed to seeing women’s bodies—so long as they were not his own—he now found himself staring at a woman’s body that belonged to him. He had work to do. Instead, he abandoned washing and looked down at his chest, then up at the ceiling, then down again outside the tub, repeating the motion. The fact that there was nowhere safe to rest his eyes filled him with frustration and irritation.
The unfamiliar sensation of breasts protruding from his body was disturbing enough. Yet what troubled him more was the red light of the marble tub reflected in the water that filled it. He lifted his arm from a sea of blood—though no blood clung to it. The crimson that filled the tub was merely clear water reflecting red marble. His mind knew this. Still, the transparent liquid mirroring his pale female form looked exactly like blood.
The battlefield-like scene excited him. His body temperature rose, strength gathered in his limbs, his senses sharpened to detect threats, his nerves grew keener…… That was not all. He felt his breasts trying to float on the water. The sensation of someone cupping and lifting his chest reminded him of Marion’s touch. The hot water confirmed the shape of his thighs, waist, hips, navel, and the sex covered by golden hair. His body grew unbearably hot. It was not only the bathwater’s fault.
He curled inward to resist the heat. Drawing his knees up pressed his thighs against his chest. Without realizing it, he trembled slightly. The skin was soft and damp, yet the friction against his nipples proved stimulating.
“Ah!”
He covered his mouth with his left knee. That knee, too, was a problem. His entire body, already hypersensitive, registered even the gentle lapping of the water with perfect clarity. He closed his eyes to forget every sensation. It did not work. With sight gone, touch grew sharper still. Even the sound of water splashing reached his ears like the sound of a woman’s prepared sex.
He covered his ears. It did not work. The movement of his arms made his breasts sway. He now knew he was wet—not from the bathwater, but from liquid welling inside his body. He felt all his nerves converge between his legs. A small moan escaped him.
“Mmm……”
He pressed his ears harder and curled tighter. His head sank lower until his mouth touched the water. Bubbles slipped between his closed lips and tickled his cheeks. He removed his hands from his ears and wrapped his arms around his knees. His shoulders began to tremble.
When the sensations from his nipples pressed by his thighs and his thighs pressed by his nipples became indistinguishable, he came to his senses.
“Damn it!”
He shot upright and shouted. The sound of splashing water and his cry startled the maids outside.
“Your Majesty! What is the matter?”
“Has a rat appeared?”
“It is nothing of the sort! Stay out! Do not come in!”
His voice was wet—not from tears, but from pleasure. He thought to himself, This is not the time. He had no time for this. He had not come here to enjoy the bath.
He climbed out of the tub. Whether the water had been too hot or his body too fevered, the air outside felt cold. He hunched slightly, water dripping from every inch of him, and unwrapped the towel from his head. Standing before the mirror, he saw a woman with wet hair and faintly flushed skin gazing back at him with an expression of desire.
He recalled the bodies of the women he had touched. He wondered if they had felt this sensitive. If so, he could not imagine how they endured daily life. He gritted his teeth and began drying himself. Even the softly wrung linen towel sent jolts through him whenever it touched his skin. It was not even a sensitive area—only his forearm or thigh—and still the sensation reached his mind.
He fought a difficult battle. Slowly, over a long time, he dried every part of his body while trying not to feel. He wiped his face, neck, limbs, back, and waist thoroughly, then sighed. He lacked the courage to dry what remained. Yet leaving without finishing was unthinkable.
In the mirror, the woman staring at him—face and body flushed crimson—was still wet. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered the towel to his chest. Simply moving it there made the weight on his shoulders seem to vanish. He wished that were all he felt, but the movement lifted and stimulated his breasts. Ignoring the sensation, he finished drying them. The towel, originally soft but now slightly stiff from moisture, wrapped around his white breasts and brushed his nipples.
He cried out.
“Hik!”
He clamped his mouth shut. He felt he could never win this fight. He had believed he had calmed considerably, yet the moment his chest was touched, heat surged between his legs once more. Seeing the woman in the mirror—eyes brimming with defeat and helplessness—he swallowed dryly. Her wet hair was disheveled; she clutched the towel over her chest and stomach. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and her slightly parted lips, drawing quick breaths, invited a man to kiss her.
He lowered his gaze. Though she stood with knees together, her posture suggested she might collapse at any moment. The golden hair visible beneath the towel was soaked with water and, unmistakably, another liquid. Its nature was obvious. He could tell she stood on the verge of surrendering to lust.
That woman was Richelle—himself.
The woman named Richelle, defeated by carnal desire, abandoned the towel. As she slowly lowered it, the first thing reflected in the mirror were her engorged nipples. One hand moved to her nipples, the other to her sex.
“Hik!”
A short cry escaped her. It echoed through the steamy bath but was swallowed by the sound of her sinking to the floor. She glanced toward the door. The maids showed no sign of entering. Relief washed over her. Her conscience warned that relief was misplaced, yet she ignored it.
She spread the legs of the woman in the mirror. There, unmistakably, was a woman’s sex. Gazing at the flushed, swollen labia reflected in the misted glass, she stroked her erect nipples and swollen clitoris. Lightning flashed behind her eyes; darkness swallowed her vision. A blazing force struck her heart and spread through her entire body. She could no longer see the mirror. Though her eyes remained open, she could not comprehend what they beheld. She toppled sideways.
She rubbed her nipples, occasionally pressing them. With each motion, thick fluid welled from deep inside her body. Her fingers moved beyond her control, like living creatures determined to turn Richard into a female. Like the creature Marion had been two days ago.
She startled violently. She could no longer see herself. All that remained visible in the steamy bath were red light and white light, gold and silver marble and ornaments. All she could feel was the greedy creature thrusting in and out of her sex. The more she tried to escape it, the more relentlessly it drove deeper into the place she wished to flee.
Unable to free herself, she tried to call for help. But she could not. She did not want anyone to see her like this—collapsed on the wet floor, one hand on her breast, fingers buried inside her sex. She imagined the maids’ shock, their eyes looking down at her as though she were a street whore or a bitch mounted by a dog. The image was unbearably humiliating. Yet even more humiliating was the fact that, at the very moment the vision arose in her mind, she convulsed for the first time since her coronation, spilling sticky fluid between her legs as she reached climax.
When the Queen did not emerge, the maids entered the bath. They found Queen Richelle—having barely regained enough strength to finish tending to herself after her climax and now appearing as though she were still bathing—only twenty minutes before the scheduled audience.