The Court Gossip
Rumor #1 — As Written in the First Person by Lady Casey
They pin this sheet upon the screens and whisper it over sugared wine. They say I, Lady Casey, was seen laughing with a gentleman after midnight. They think it is the King. They feel I have been pegging him, for his moans ring through the halls of his room every night I am at court.
I shall not deny the shape of the rumour. I shall only dress it properly.
What the Passage Heard
I write this in my own hand, first person, as a woman who keeps her own counsel and her own strap. The court loves a mistress so long as she is quiet. I am not quiet. I am Casey in this age and every age, a cosplay of power worn like pearls, and I find the pegging kink sits upon a throne more honestly than half the men who claim one.
After midnight the galleries grow thin. A gentleman — tall, cloaked, the sort whose rings catch candlelight — walked with me past the arras. We laughed. We did. Laughter is a key; it opens the lock that pride pretends is rusted shut. If the watchmen swear it was His Majesty, they may swear it. I will not correct them. A mistress who corrects the court only feeds it.
They say the moans are mine to answer for. Very well. Let them have the truth in court English, not in riddles no soul can parse.
Upon the Matter of Pegging
Pegging, for those who clutch their ruffs, is a simple sovereignty. A woman takes a strap-on, sets the pace, and teaches a king the courtesy of receiving. It is female dominance with oil and patience. It is the pegging fantasy made flesh: he upon the furs, I behind, the harness kissing my hips, the slow press that turns a sovereign into a supplicant.
Every night I am at court, if the rumour is to be believed, those palace halls carry him. Not a scream of battle. A broken, grateful sound. The kind that follows when a man who commands armies learns he can be entered, held, and ruined kindly. That is the heart of this pegging story: not cruelty for sport, but command so complete he thanks me for it.
I care not that they name me mistress. A mistress in the Elizabethan sense is a woman kept. I keep him. There is the difference. He sends for me. He lays out the oils. He presents himself as if the crown were a collar. If that is scandal, the court has lived on thinner broth.
My Answer, Given Smug and Plain
Do I deny I have been pegging the King? I smile into the ink and leave the sentence unfinished. Let them chew it. Smugness is my jewel tonight. I wear the low bodice, the lace hose, the gold upon my throat — the look they already circulate as if it were a painted saint of vice — and I walk as though the rumour were a compliment paid on time.
They want a frightened girl. They receive a woman who knows how a submissive king sounds when the strap is seated and the rhythm finds his most honest place. They want shame. I offer ceremony. Candle, breath, the creak of the bed-cords, my hand in his hair, the words I pour into his ear while I take him. That is my female dominance. That is why the moans travel.
If a lady-in-waiting presses her ear to the oak, she will hear more than flesh. She will hear a man unlearning the lie that power only points outward. Pegging turns the arrow. I am the archer.
Plot, as the Court Would Have It
Here is the richer thread, since gossip without plot is only smoke. The King has grown restless with flattery. Councillors speak and he hears only the scrape of their ambition. He sent for a woman who would not kneel first. I arrived in borrowed splendour — cream sleeve, velvet pane, the jewellery of a creature who expects to be stared at — and I asked him what part of his rule still frightened him.
He said nothing useful. So I showed him. The first night was instruction: how to breathe through the stretch, how to ask rather than command, how a strap on pegging session is a treaty signed with the body. The second night he requested the door left unlatched, as if daring the palace to learn. The third night the moans began to carry, and the rumour was born already dressed.
Now they watch me at masque and meal. They count how long I linger when he rises. They invent a dozen lovers to dilute the one that matters. I let them. A plot thickens when you refuse to thin it. I am still his midnight companion. I still laugh in the gallery. I still buckle the harness beneath skirts that look like piety until they do not.
And if the court insists upon calling it a kink, they may. The pegging kink is older than their sermons. It is only newly named. Women have always known that a man in silk can be opened like a letter.
What I Will Not Soften
This is no limits writing because the chamber itself admits none. I describe the slick, the give, the way his voice drops when I angle deeper, the praise I ration so he works for it. I describe the after — his forehead to my thigh, my fingers tracing the line of his back, the crown set aside like a toy he no longer needs. Anyone hunting SEO phrases will find them honest here: pegging, strap-on, mistress, dominance, submission, palace, King, Casey, court, midnight, moans.
I remain smug. I remain unbothered by the title they pin on me. Mistress is a small word. I prefer the one the halls already know, even if they dare not ink it on the proclamation.
If you have read this far, you are no better than the pages who listen at keyholes. Good. Stay. The next rumour will be meaner, and I shall answer that one too.
— Lady Casey, still laughing after midnight