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The Elegance Network: Browsing Molly the Ice Queen
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Molly Matthews
Molly the Ice Queen

Even the nobles call her the Ice Queen. Nineteen years old, spoiled, bored, arrogant and corrupted absolutely by absolute power. Dressed in the finest fashions, imported at shocking expense by steamship and clipper. Today Her Majesty is trying and failing to amuse herself at the expense of a nobleman from Burgundy. He is advised by the effete and dissolute Royal Chancellor that today Her Majesty requires a slight addition to the usual court protocol of kneeling at her feet. Today she requires that all visitors kiss her shoes. "If you are really lucky she may even deign to let you lick them clean." leers the Chancellor before taking another sniff of whatever strange herb it is currently fashionable to be addicted to.

The Burgundian approached on his knees. This is his first time at court and he is naturally nervous- no-one wants to lose their head over a slip in protocol. He was warned that Her Majesty requires gifts before she will even listen to a petition, so he has come prepared. After the bizarre ritual of kissing her shoes, he offers her the two gifts that he has scrimped and saved for months to purchase. He has dressed in his finest coat and his servants polished his shoes and buckles for hours. She looks at the large gemstone with something approaching disgust. She doesn't bother to look at him at all.

"A gemstone. Purple. I'm not wearing purple. It's big enough I suppose" (it was the largest in all of France) "but I think it has flaws. Don't you think it has flaws, Chancellor?" The chancellor lazily extracts his hand from somewhere in the depths of a lady in waiting, straightens his surcoat and pronounces "Undoubtedly, your Majesty. Surely your keenest perception has seen through this flim-flam. It might even be construed as an insult." He has not even glanced at the stone- his eyes are still fastened upon the dishevelled lady-in-waiting's bust.

"Well, the next present had better be better or I'll have you kicked off your land."

The Burgundian gulps, since he's already in danger of losing his lands to the legal machinations of his cousin's lawyers. He offers an exquisite box, crafted by the best artist in Italy and filled with Italian pearls. It had been his mother's, god rest her soul.

"A box. A box of pearls. Small pearls."

The Burgundian's heart is suddenly in his throat.

"I've had enough of this. Chancellor, take him away. You can have some fun with him if you like." The Burgundian is sufficiently strong willed to go to his doom with his head held high.

The Queen is left alone in the throne room. What to do? Dally with a strong guardsman? Dull. Go and watch the Chancellor have his fun? Icky. Go and shoot something? Too much effort. She sits and fiddles with her white leather gloves. Then an idea comes to her and she calls for a scribe. "Take this down. By Royal Order, all nobles in the Kingdom are demanded to present Her Royal Majesty with oooh let's see at least a thousand gold sovereigns on the feast of Saint Michael or be stripped of rank and title and publicly whipped." That should get enough gold to buy some fun from down in Egypt, and if the poor ones couldn't pay it would be mildly amusing to watch them grovel. She signed the letter and handed it to one of her elite Amazon messengers.

The order was proclaimed by the town criers across the kingdom. For the nobles who had sworn fealty to her, it was the last straw. Two weeks later, on the feast of St. Michael, a small band of the nobles arrived at the castle, dressed in their most formal and flouncy waistcoats and long coats. They were wheeling a large old fashioned hand cart. The bored guards waved them through, rifles propped up against the walls and probably not even loaded. The Chancellor, lounging against the throne room door as a new lady in waiting's head energetically pumped up and down at his crotch, merely said "The Nobles" and waved them through.

The queen was a bit surprised at the hand cart, but then she supposed there was a lot of gold there. They whipped off the covers... to reveal a pile of rifles and rapiers! The queen recoiled, tried to flee as the men grabbed the weapons and set about the hated Royal Guards with considerable enthusiasm. The chancellor, his mind on lower things, was subdued by a single blow of a rapier's pommel as the first gunshots sounded. As the gore began to flow, the men rounded on the Ice Queen, hiding behind the throne. One good slap from her father's most trusted advisor sent her to her knees.

So what the hell do we do now? We've all broken our solemn oath of fealty." "One of us could take the throne. But I'll die before I let it be you, and you'll die before you let it be me. It'll tear the Kingdom apart, and that's the last thing it needs after two years under the Ice Queen."

"I can't BELIEVE you are doing this! Oathbreakers! Scum! I'll have you all flayed and boiled in oil!"

"Oh, somebody please shut her up? Thank you."


"We could have an election, a parliament like in England. Or a select group of electors?"

The nobles continued their conference as the Queen struggled, bound to her throne. When they reached a conclusion, they turned and looked at her. "MMMMMMMMMMPH!!!"

"Yes, but she'll have to go. Otherwise we'll have royalist rebellions for years."

"I will not be party to her death. Her father was a good friend of mine, and I will not see her executed for political expediency."

"We could try her."


"A court. Try her for her excesses. We could even do it here and now.

Military court, or we'll be up to our necks in lawyers for years."


The sentence was handed down. A hundred lashes, the torture of the boiling wax (because it had always been her favourite for minor infractions by nobles, and most of them had suffered it) and permanent exile.

She was hauled off to the rooms so favoured by the now ex-Chancellor. Better to do it while the blood was still surging, before they lost the nerve. Revolutions never work if you stop to think about them.

Stripped naked for the punishment, just as each of the nobles had been, the Ice Queen was bound by cuffs so that the whole of her delicious body was available to the torturer. The torturer (who the nobles bore no grudge- hard to find a good torturer, no need to waste one) rubbed his hands together in glee. It's not often one of your most powerful fantasies comes to life. The drips of scarlet wax started on the soles of her bare feet. The soles are exquisitely sensitive, yet tough enough to suffer no lasting harm. Then on to the hands, one of the most awful places to have searing wax dripped. Not too hot, not hot enough to scar or burn, just hot enough to sting beyond all endurance. She screamed and hollered, but no harm would be done. The torturer brought the candle closer. The shorter the distance the was fell through the air, the less time it had to cool. As she just began to get to be able to bear the sting, the candle would move a few inches closer and she'd be hollering and screaming again.

Then the torturer started to drip wax onto her breasts.

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