3/1/2018 7:40:21 PM: 'Come now, Milady, it is time. Bendeth thou over,' Richard, the Trou Down Prince said, thrusting provocatively with his hips towards a Restoration era table. 'Doeth this thing now', he added as an afterthought. Meredith the Fair, Lady of Soixante-Neuf, brushed a wisp of sun touched blonde hair from her face, shrugged her pale, bare shoulders and lifted a dozen petticoats and hoops above her slim waist while somehow stepping out of her silken stockings. In one fluid, yet practiced, motion, she bent over the furniture, spreading her shapely legs and bracing herself with long, toned arms on the table's drop leaf. 'Getteth this foul deed over with forthwith', Meredith said in haughty aristocratic tones used mainly with the help, dismissing the Prince's blackmail threats as a big nothing.  'Be thou of certain that thou prick do pricketh hard -- if thou can.' 'Thou mocketh me?' sneered the trou-down Prince. 'Once drawn, Sexcalibur need must be sheathed only into thy moist folds deeply.' As his erection freed itself from his royal pants, she actually heard the r of weapons-grade steel drawn from a scabbard. Although she knew this was only an overused trope, yet she was afraid, and beads of sweat rolled off her forehead and tickled down her cleavage. Meredith white knuckled the table, closed her eyes and wiggled her noble ass. Her voice did not betray her dread of the imminent royal probing.