By Fly on the Wall
Now the evening’s entertainment proceeds to its historic conclusion.
From among the serving wenches one is chosen by popular acclaim and indeed, through the perspective of four thousand lenses all of which have been evaluating the contenders, I can report without fear of contradiction that not a prettier bottom exists in all of France. Its cheeks are pale and flawless, exquisitely firm and round and from the base of her spine to the great divide is a thin line of golden down like the fuzz on a peach. But of all the wenches, clever girl, she has hitherto revealed the least of herself, offering only brief, tantalizing glimpses to the assembled who are lusting and panting to see more. Only I, the fly, can take a closer look, which I now do in the interests of full and complete disclosure. I make a darting foray beneath her skirts, although unlike the oaf Boesse, now sleeping it off in the castle dungeon, I look but don’t touch, at least that’s my story, and keep a respectful distance from her maidenhood.
Now is the turn of the noble women to bare their bottoms for royal approval and from among these Catherine de Medici will choose her champion to go against the wench. To the music of madrigals the ladies of the court assemble on stage holding hands as they circle the Queen in a slow and courtly dance. They are masked to hide their identity but otherwise are naked except for silk scarves around their necks that hang just low enough to protect their modesty. As they move the silks drift and sway and the audience, now in raptures, drifts and sways in synchronized voyeurism. Finally, with a great roll of drums, Her Majesty makes her choice and bids her champion remove her mask. There are gasps of astonishment. It is the lovely Angèle, youngest daughter of the Duke of Avignon, newly arrived in court.
Now the throng is on its feet. Should the grand winner be the aristocratic Lady of Avignon or should it be the people’s choice, the maid Marianne of Armentieres. There is a great clamor in the house and loud debate.
And here, regrettably, I must draw a veil of my own for to identify the winner would be indelicate at best and at worst would attract the retrospection of historians. But I, Doctor Fly, am not quite done yet. As a final act – as my time here is almost up – I will play a choreographer’s role. When the winner has received her five gold pieces and in gratitude has assumed a position over the Queen’s knee to receive a royal spanking, I make my move. Unseen by the mob which is now jostling for position like revolutionaries at the palace gates, I land on one of her beautiful buttocks and sit there as still as a freckle.
Alas, there is no time to enjoy the moment as I have soon to take evasive action. The Queen’s hand falls swiftly and without warning, but whether she’s swatting the fly or spanking the bottom it’s not clear. By the time her hand lands on one cheek I have jumped to the other. Back and forth I go, forth and back, until the buttocks beneath my feet redden and squirm and the recipient of the Queen’s largesse utters little mewling cries of pleasure. And then with a nod to the Bishop of Boulogne who I now observe is groping the buttocks of the Dowager Bergerac, I seek refuge in the nether regions.
It’s warm and damp down here as you might expect of a maiden in arousal. Moistened and aromatic hairs entangle me like reeds in wetlands. And then in milliseconds I am gone.