Rhiannon and the King (Part One)

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Rhiannon did her best to keep a low profile in the village where she lived with her family. Her dad was a baker and they lived humbly, but more comfortably than some of the more lowly serfs. She had grown into a beautiful young woman, but she did her best to hide that fact, because she wasn’t interested in just settling down with some local boy and living with him forever. She didn’t want to attract their attention or offers for her hand in marriage.

Life had to be about more than that. It had to be.

And the fact was, she was harboring feelings that she didn’t know how to reckon with. She felt an aching deep inside of her all the time, an unfulfilled yearning. The only way she knew to have a brief reprieve from the throbbing desire was to touch herself quietly at night after everyone had gone to sleep, furiously rubbing herself until she felt a white hot jolt of pleasure that could briefly tide her over.

But it was never quite enough.

She kept her most beautiful feature hidden from public as often as possible so as to avoid unwanted attention—her flaxen hair, which hung in thick honey blond waves to her hips. She wore it braided tightly to her head and covered with scarves. Anything to keep unwanted attention at bay.

She was sweeping the bakery when her sister Bridget burst in the door.

“Did you hear the news?”

“What news?”

“The king himself! He’s coming through our village in but two hours! Maybe less.”

Rhiannon’s chest tightened. “What for?”

“He said he wants all the young women in our village to line the streets as he rides through. Some are saying he may be looking for housemaids. Others are saying he could be on the lookout for a mistress. Either way, I am getting ready!”

Bridget ran upstairs and Rhiannon followed quickly after her, the girls fighting over dresses and washing their faces with damp cloths, pinching their cheeks to add color.

Rhiannon had lost the battle over dresses with her sister—they had one fine dress that had once belonged to  their late mother, who was a highborn lady who married for love beneath her station. It was a rich green fabric and clung to Bridget’s figure perfectly. She braided her hair elegantly around her head and covered it with a fine netting of pearls.

Rhiannon looked down at her well-fitting, but simple brown muslin dress with a hint of disappointment. There was no way she’d attract the attention of the king like this, she thought. Unless…

She took her hair down out of it’s braid and brushed through its lengths. It was truly breathtaking. She decided, against propriety and current fashions, that she would wear it down. It was her one feature that might bring his eyes to her. And he might just be her ticket out of this monotonous life.

When the time came, all the young women of the village lined the streets, their families anxiously waiting behind them in their windows and doorways. While it would be in some ways a tragedy for one of their daughters to be called away, as they’d likely never come home again, they would be sent a life-changing amount of money from the castle.

Finally, the cavalcade proceeded its march through the village. The king himself led the charge, followed by a handful of knights on horses and a carriage. He didn’t say a word, just continued his ride down the street, looking impassively at the preening women lining his path.

When he reached Rhiannon and her sister, he stopped in his tracks. Bridget, certain the attention was for her, sent him a look of feigned modesty.

“You,” the king said. The first word he’d spoken.

He was pointing at Rhiannon. He got down off his horse and walked to her, took a handful of her hair in his hand, brought it to his nose and inhaled. He was handsome and young, with long dark hair and piercing green eyes. His eye contact was both menacing and impossibly arousing. She heard hushed whispers from the people in her village, she felt on display and vulnerable.

“Me?” was all Rhiannon could get out before he turned on his heel and walked back to his knight, who he talked to inaudibly. 

The knight came over to her and said, “Come this way, miss.”

She was frozen in place.

“That’s not a request. It’s an order of the king of our land.”

She looked to her right and Bridget refused to look at her. She turned behind and her father wouldn’t make eye contact with her. Seeing no alternative, she followed the man, who led her to a carriage.

Inside the carriage sat three other women.

Speaking with them, she learned that the one with stick straight long black hair was named Vivian, the girl with red curls spilling down her back was Alice, and the girl with chocolate brown hair was named Isabella. Each of them said the same story. The king had gone through their village that day, walked up to them, touched their hair, and then requested that they enter his carriage.

“Do you think he’s choosing us to be his housemaids?” Alice asked, nervously. The milk white skin of her nose was dotted with freckles.

Vivian seemed to be the most sophisticated of the group. “I doubt it.” She crossed her arms and looked moodily out the carriage window.

The women spent the rest of the ride in relative silence.


It was dark when they arrived at the castle. A servant brought them up a narrow staircase, into a large, opulent room that housed four beds.

They were instructed to bathe in the steaming tub, which was filled with sweet smelling oils.

“Make sure to wash your hair, the lot of ye,” the housemaid had told them. “And dry it by the fire. His Lordship will be by in the morning and you better be up, clean, and dressed in the clothing in the wardrobe by the time he steps in. He is a man who needs things done a particular way.”

When she left, they heard the loud clang of a lock.

The women took turns bathing, washing each other’s hair, brushing it, and sitting by the fire to dry. They were all nervous, wondering what was in store for them.


The next morning, there was a sharp rap at the door. The women were all dressed, sitting on the edge of their beds, and stood when they heard the key in the door turn.

The king walked in, his authority present in every step. He scanned each of the women with his eyes and then focused his gaze on Rhiannon.
“Come with me,” he told her, before turning around and walking out the door.

Her heart racing, she followed him out the door and through a winding path that led to a large chamber. His chamber?

She walked into the room and he closed the door behind them.

She stole a glance at him. He was even more handsome than she remembered. The familiar ache she battled for so long began pulsing deep inside her.

“Turn around,” he told her, and she complied, oddly turned on by his firm request.

She felt him tug at the laces on the back of her dress. Felt him push the fabric down her arms as her purple gown pooled at her feet. She felt exposed in her white shift, her nipples hardening by the cold in the air and her desire.

He walked around to face her. “Take the rest of your clothes off.”

She looked at him, a little scared, but felt an inexplicably arousing, bone-deep desire to please him. She lifted the white nightdress over her head, leaving her body completely exposed, except for her long hair, which covered her body.

“Lady Godiva,” he smiled, taking a look at her. “Do you know why I chose you yesterday?”

“No, Your Grace.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.

He reached a hand out to her and cupped her chin, “Your hair, my pet.”

“My hair?”

“Yes, it is some of the loveliest hair I’ve ever seen.” He stepped closer to her and toyed with the ends of it. “And you are a beautiful girl.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, heat shooting through her body at his touch and his words.

“My wife, the Queen, and I—we have an arrangement,” he explained. “She allows me my, how shall we say? Dalliances. But she has a condition.”

“A condition, Your Grace?”

He pet a hand along the length of her hair, which made every part of her body that was covered in it shiver. “Yes, and I think you are a good, obedient girl, so I don’t think the condition should trouble you much. You see, my wife isn’t blessed with hair like yours, my sweet. It’s thin, and can’t grow to great lengths. And she’s a jealous woman. So out of respect for her, and our sacred and holy bond, I don’t make love to women who have lovelier hair than hers.”

“Oh,” Rhiannon uttered, confused at his words. Did that mean he wasn’t going to make love to her? She was aching for him. She didn’t know for what, exactly, but she could feel a wetness between her legs.

“So you see, my dear,” he walked away from her and strode toward a table near his bed, grabbed something with his hands and walked back toward her.

He was holding scissors, she noticed, and a cold nervousness shot through her as she realized what he was saying.

He continued, “In exchange for my ability to experience pleasure how I see fit, I gift my wife with a new wig, made from the hair of a maiden with one of the loveliest manes in the country.”

She gasped, “Do you mean to cut my hair, Your Grace?” She stepped back, desperate to leave the room.

“Your hair will be cut, girl. And I can tell by the way your nipples harden and the wetness I can see beading around your cunt that you want me to do it, too. And then you want me to use me how I see fit. Because I can tell, just by the way you respond to my requests, that you are a good, subservient girl. And I will pleasure you in ways beyond your wildest imaginings. But first you must submit to me your most precious feature, so you can fully become mine.”

She shook her head, even though deep inside her, she wanted what he was promising. The idea of submitting to him filled her with a deep arousal. Was this the unknowable ache she’d been longing for her whole life? She wanted to do anything to please him.

“But despite the fact that I could, I don’t take anything that is not freely given. So this is your one chance. You can turn around. Leave. Go back to your village. Keep your precious hair. Marry a farm boy. Be covered in dirt and muck as you dig for potatoes for the rest of your days. Perhaps you’ll be happy. Have a gaggle of children. Perhaps die early of some wasting disease. Or you can stay here, as long as you want. Shorn. At my service. Wanting for nothing. Dripping in jewels, silks. Pleasured beyond your wildest imaginings. The choice is yours.”

She knew what she should do. She should leave. She should go home.

“If you choose to leave, walk out the door now. I won’t follow you. I won’t harm you. I’ll make sure you are deposited back at your doorstep by day’s end. But if you choose me, and this life, I want you to fall to your knees now, with your head bowed. And if you do that, you are mine.”

She looked him in the eye. Looked at the door. Looked at him again. His lips were soft against his angular, masculine face. His bottle green eyes looked lit from within.

Rhiannon let out a breath and dropped to her knees before him. Bowed her head.

He groaned in pleasure. “Good girl. Now lean over so your hair is spilling all around you, onto the ground.”

She did as she was told, so that all she saw was a tent of her hair, obscuring her vision.

“Now, look to your right.”

She looked to her right, and could make out the outline of a pair of scissors that was lying on the ground next to her, just by her hand.

“Your Grace?”

“You’re going to make the first cut yourself.”

She started crying, her tears hitting the stone floor in fat drops. “Please, don’t make me.”

He pet her bowed head. “You must. To prove your submission to me.”

With shaking hands, she picked up the heavy metal scissors and felt cold dread.

“How short must I cut it, Your Grace?”

“As close to the scalp as you can muster. I want my wife’s new wig to be as magnificent as possible.”

It was demeaning, the idea of some other woman parading around, wearing her beloved hair as she was humiliated. Her tears picked up again, wracking through her body.

His voice turned firm. “This is not a request, girl. Cut.”

His demand made her body move as if of its own accord. She drew the scissors to the front of her hair, grabbed a long, thick piece, and placed the scissors as close to her head as possible. She clamped her hand down, heard the distinct slice of metal through hair as a beloved lock slithered to the floor.

“Yes, good girl,” he told her. “Now look up.”

She looked up, letting what was left of her hair slide behind her back. The king had taken his pants off, and his lengthy dick was hard as a rock, right next to her face.

“Swallow my cock, wench,” he commanded, and she did as she was told. Even though she had never done it before, she acted on instinct, enthusiastically licking around the head before taking him deep inside her mouth.

“Yes, just like that,” he moaned, holding the back of her head and fucking her mouth.

She was so aroused at the way she was pleasuring him, that she almost forgot what was happening, until she felt the cold metal of the scissors plunge into her hair again, this time from the king’s hand.

As she sucked him, he began chopping her beautiful hair with urgency, lying the cut pieces in a growing pile near them. She was sucking, and crying, and aroused, and horrified as the long tendrils of her golden hair were removed from her head.

Snip, slice, chop. The sounds were overwhelming and her cries were muffled, until suddenly he dropped the scissors at their side and grabbed her head with both of his hands, rubbing his hands through her ruined hair.

“Oh, look at you, your most beautiful feature. Gone, just like that. You’ve probably been growing that your whole life. Was this your first haircut at all? Feel your head, girl.”

Tentatively, she brought her hands to her head and he guided her to rub against her scalp. What was once long and glorious, beautiful enough to entice the king to pluck her from obscurity, was now patchy, and cut to her skin at places. No place on her head had longer than an inch of hair. She sobbed against his dick, which brought him over the edge as he came inside her mouth, crying out in masculine pleasure. Even though she was mourning the loss of her mane, making him feel that good filled her with a sense of power.

She swallowed his cum and he tasted sweet.

Once he arrived back to earth, he looked down at her with a kind of awe. He picked her up and carried her to his bed, kissing the tears off her cheeks. Murmuring kind words to her. Telling her how beautiful she looked, how brave she had been. His sweetness was unexpected after his rough handling, but she found that it was grounding her back in the moment. He kissed his way down her body until he reached the core of her and she gasped in surprise and then immense pleasure as he began to lick around her swollen clit.

“You’ve earned this,” he muttered against her soft inner thigh, and then continued his mission.

This was it, she thought. What she’d been waiting for. The power play. The pleasure of it all. The lack of societal rules tying her down to a predictable world.

She was moaning softly, which became much louder as he slipped a finger, and then two fingers inside of her, crooking his fingers against her G-Spot as he continued his onslaught against her clit with his tongue.

“Yes, I know,” he said, “I know it feels good. Let go. Come for me.”

Her orgasm came fast and huge, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. White light flooded behind her eyes as time stopped. She was just pleasure, just the moment. Just with him.

After, they both laid together for a while, while he stroked what was left of her hair.

“Do you want to see?” he asked.

“Not really,” she whispered, but got up when he offered her a hand and brought her over to the mirror.

She looked in the mirror and immediately began to cry. Her hair was a mess. He kissed her temple and brought the scissors back to her scalp, working around to cut all of it to be as close to one length as possible, shorn to less than 1/4th of an inch, with her bright scalp shining through. Her hair, which just an hour before reached her hips, was now much shorter than his. But the more she looked at herself, the more she got used to it. The way she was now his, and how she had proven her loyalty in a big way. And honestly, without her hair, she was able to notice other things about herself. Big, blue eyes. A softly curvy body. She was more than a head of hair. Watching herself in the mirror, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile.

“I can tell we’re going to have a lot of fun together, girl,” he told her.

“I agree, Your Grace.”

(To be continued…)

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