The New Queen - 2
No one remembered Richard’s original appearance. To the world, Richard had always been the princess of the Zylan Kingdom, a girl named Richelle—a notorious tomboy. That was how everyone remembered it. There were only five exceptions: Richard himself, King Philip of Derim, Archbishop Hubert of Clondel, Prince Rio of Zylan, and Lady Marion. They were the five who had heard the voice of God during the coronation ceremony.
The reason Zylan had been ruled solely by queens for three hundred years was now painfully obvious. It wasn’t that no ambitious princes like Richard had ever existed. Among the queens of Zylan, there had always been an unusual number who seemed strikingly “manly.” Richard could not suppress a bitter chuckle. All his efforts had come to this.
Still, he could not afford to wallow in despair. He was queen now, and the tasks before him were mountainous. There were the pending documents he had approved as regent and acting monarch, the fresh pile of new matters that had accumulated today, and the internal problems of the royal family itself.
Richelle walked as far as the door to Marion’s bedchamber and gave the chambermaid a meaningful look. The maid, however, did not immediately announce the queen’s arrival. She fidgeted, glancing nervously at Richelle.
“What are you waiting for?” Richelle demanded.
“Um… well…”
“I asked you what you are waiting for.”
Richelle spoke a little louder. “Hurry and inform—
He stopped, cleared his throat, then continued.
“Inform him that Queen Richelle has arrived.”
The maid bowed politely and, in a trembling voice, announced the queen’s arrival. No answer came from within. Marion was not absent; instead, a faint sound drifted through the door—something between a mutter and a sob.
Richelle pressed her ear closer to the wood. The maid tried to announce him again, but Richelle stopped her with a raised hand. The girl lowered her head, looking as though she might cry.
Richelle had not misheard. The small voice coming from inside was unmistakably a moan—or a whimper. He was surprised. The proud, unyielding Marion, crying? It seemed impossible. Yet the sound was clear, and it was real.
Richelle called out in a loud voice.
“Marion! I’m coming in!”
Without waiting for a reply, he flung the door open. Marion was nowhere in sight; only the bed, swollen beneath a thick quilt. From underneath it came Marion’s voice.
“…Good morning… Your Majesty.”
“Are you in that much pain?”
Richelle walked slowly toward the bed. The quilt twitched as though something beneath it was squirming, but it did not sound like weeping. The voice that emerged was low, yet steady.
When Richelle pulled up a stool and sat, the answer came again from under the covers.
“I’m fine.”
“No matter how much you dislike me, surely we can at least look at each other while we speak?”
“…Forgive me. I am simply not in the mood right now.”
“Marion, please. This only makes things harder for both of us.”
Richelle felt his paper-thin patience beginning to fray. Across the entire world, only Marion shared his exact predicament.
“…I will come to you later.”
Richelle dismissed the maid standing by the door. Once she had withdrawn and the door clicked shut, he spoke again.
“You are not the only one suffering.”
He let out a long sigh.
“Are we not the only two in this situation? The other three may know what happened, but they are not enduring the same torment we are.”
“…”
Richelle spoke with raw earnestness, yet Marion remained silent. At last Richelle’s tone turned almost pleading.
“Please, Marion. It would be better to talk face to face. Come out from under there.”
The quilt jerked as though hiccupping. Marion’s back emerged. His ears were flushed crimson, whether from embarrassment or the warmth of the blankets. Richelle waited patiently. Slowly, Marion turned his face.
Richelle saw torment and discomfort there, as expected. But he also found something else.
Fear.
What could possibly frighten him?
Richelle tried to meet his eyes, but Marion kept avoiding his gaze. The strange behavior was so unlike him that Richelle opened his mouth to ask—then froze.
The body beneath the quilt was far too long. Too long, and far too large. He could say with absolute certainty that this was not Marion’s original frame.
Instead of asking, Richelle acted. He seized the quilt and yanked it aside.
Beneath it lay Marion, clothes half torn away, and a maid in similar disarray.
The maid scrambled up and bowed deeply before Richelle.
“Cover yourself properly,” Richelle said.
“Y-yes! Your Majesty the Queen. Please, spare my life…”
Richelle dismissed her with a curt wave. The maid fled on legs that looked ready to give out. When the door closed behind her, Richelle turned back to Marion.
“Are there any more maids hiding in here?”
“…There are not.”
Marion’s face was even redder than before, burning with mortification. He refused to meet Richelle’s eyes.
Richelle pressed a hand to his throbbing temple.
“You’ve adapted already, have you?”
“As you can see.”
“Hah.”
Richelle was speechless. Why had he wasted any concern on Marion at all? He had feared the man might be suffering. Instead, Marion appeared to be thoroughly enjoying his new circumstances.
Richelle rose from the stool. He turned toward the door, but after only three steps he wheeled back. Marion had risen awkwardly to follow him.
“You look well,” Richelle said. “Truly, I find it astonishing that you can manage it. No—enviable. After all the hatred you once felt for me! No matter how much you despised me!”
His voice dropped to a low growl. Marion tried to speak, but Richelle gave him no opening.
“Yes, you always hated me. You hated that I frequented brothels, so now you intend to make me taste the same medicine? How foolish I was to worry that you might be suffering because of me.”
He drew a breath and continued.
“Of course! It must be delightful to laugh at the man who became a woman overnight!”
“No, Your Majesty. That is not it. And I—”
“Splendid.”
Richelle refused to let him finish. Face twisted, he advanced on Marion, jabbing a finger at him.
“You must think this fine revenge. Don’t you? The man you hated, your betrothed, the prince who haunted brothels—now a woman. And now you have the chance to repay me in kind. Does it feel good? Did you want to mock me this badly? Or—”
Richelle broke off as Marion rose fully to his feet.
Only yesterday Marion had been an exceptionally tall woman. Richelle, though tall himself, had not towered over other knights. In a single night he had become a small woman, while Marion had become a tall man. The realization that he now had to look up at Marion froze him for an instant.
“Your Majesty, please hear me for a moment,” Marion said politely.
Richelle allowed him to speak.
“…What is it? Say what you will.”
“Your Majesty. I do not hate you.”
“Nonsense.”
“As you said, I do not resent you for becoming a man. Nor did I wish for this to happen. I did not bring the maid to my bed to take revenge on you.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Can you explain it?”
“I can.”
Richelle gave a scornful laugh and jerked his chin. Marion studied his expression for a moment, then spoke.
“I prefer women. I have no interest in men.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“It means this.”
Marion stepped forward and pulled Richelle into his arms. Richelle could not break free. The shock was so great that the thought never even occurred to him. He only came back to himself when Marion’s hand slid past his waist and cupped his backside.
“What are you doing!”
“Exactly what you feel, Your Majesty…”
Marion breathed hotly against Richelle’s ear. Richelle felt a treacherous heat bloom in the place that had become female. Marion’s other hand gently stroked the nape of his neck.
“Oh, Richelle, my sweet wife.”
“Stop.”
“Becoming a woman isn’t so bad. I’ll teach you well.”
Marion’s hand moved slowly, searching out Richelle’s most vulnerable places. Richelle was defenseless against those touches; the only word he could manage was “stop.” As Marion’s palms traveled from waist to hips, from neck to shoulders, Richelle’s own hips twitched involuntarily.
It should have disgusted him. Instead, he found himself unable to resist Marion’s caresses. Marion quickly discovered every sensitive spot and attacked them with relentless intent. Richelle gasped, then cried out as Marion’s fingers slipped between her thighs.
“Eek!”
“Don’t be afraid, my love.”
“Who said I was afraid… ah!”
Richelle hunched her shoulders. Even through her clothes, Marion’s hands moved with a strange rhythm that seemed to drain the strength from her body.
“If you’re not afraid, why are you trembling?”
“Because… it feels unpleasant…”
Richelle answered obediently, as if compelled. She no longer understood her own reactions. What she should be doing was escaping Marion’s embrace, not answering questions. Yet for some reason she could not manage even that simple act.
Marion chuckled softly.
“Unpleasant, you say?”
He paused and looked down at the woman in his arms. Richelle was panting, face flushed scarlet, head bowed, eyes averted. Her shoulders quivered. He kissed her.
The moment his lips touched her soft, yielding mouth, Richelle nearly collapsed. Marion’s hands never stopped. She felt his palm close over her breast. With a single deft movement he opened the front of her gown, slipped aside her undergarments, and cupped her pale breast. It should have been revolting—yet Richelle felt unmistakable pleasure in his touch.
Marion’s hand moved between her legs, deeper. A high, keening cry escaped Richelle’s slender throat.
“No, Richelle. That is not displeasure.”
Marion spoke while savoring the heat against his fingers.
“It means your body is preparing to accept even greater pleasure.”
He whispered the words into her ear. Feeling the obvious heat and wetness even through her clothes, Marion smiled. His own breathing had grown ragged. He swept Richelle up and fell onto the bed, rolling so that she lay beneath him.
Marion took her breast into his mouth. Richelle tried to push him away, but there was no strength in her arms. His hand slid beneath her trousers. The place there was unnaturally wet. When his fingers touched her sex, Richelle moaned in a lewd voice she had never made before.
“Ahhng…”
“You understand now, don’t you? Richelle, my pretty little lark.”
“No, this isn’t… haaang!”
Richelle twisted her hips. No matter how tightly she clenched her thighs, Marion’s fingers slid inside her with humiliating ease. He tormented the small, fragile spot within her with merciless persistence. Richelle convulsed and went limp.
“Ahh…”
She tried to tell him to get off. No proper words emerged. Marion’s tongue invaded her open mouth. The sensation of being kissed as a woman was entirely new. Terror flooded her.
Her body had already become an instrument for sex. From her slick, glistening folds poured a steady flow of nectar. Her nipples had stiffened into sensitive buds that throbbed with pleasure even at the brush of air. Even her vision had changed—every sight before her made her body react. Her breasts, waist, hips, the very cloth and sheets touching her skin tormented her. And she wanted more torment.
Marion’s brief kiss felt like hell. Richelle already knew what her own eyes must look like: tear-filled, begging for the next step—the same look she had seen in countless women when she had been a man.
Marion whispered softly.
“Oh, my love.”
He dragged her trousers down to her knees, taking the soaked undergarments with them. He kissed her again and murmured against her lips.
“Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”
Won’t hurt? What wouldn’t hurt? The meaning was obvious. The hand that had been on her breast, the fingers that had invaded her below—they were gone. In their place she felt the heat of Marion’s own arousal against her thigh, soon replaced by the unmistakable blunt pressure of a naked cock.
A new wave of terror seized her. Her woman’s body was already prepared to accept his seed into her womb, but her man’s mind could not endure the knowledge. With the last of her strength, Richelle—Richard—bit down hard on Marion’s tongue.
Marion’s eyes flew wide. Richelle summoned every remaining ounce of power and drove her knee into his groin. Marion screamed and collapsed on top of her. Richelle shoved him aside with trembling arms, scrambled out from beneath him on unsteady legs, and staggered to her feet.
She looked down at Marion writhing in pain, then fled the room without even straightening her disheveled clothes.