A Gem to Di For

The following piece was presented at Jersey City Writers’ literary event – Steamy Summer Nights: An Erotic FanFiction Reading. Please enjoy.


Every night the Queen falls into a deep sleep after her strange little ritual, the glowing ruby still clasped in her hand. Since marrying the Prince Charles a year ago, I have watched Madam remove the ruby from her crown and press it to her forehead. Although she remains in her soft chair, her empty, dreamy eyes suggest she – at least in her mind – is far, far away.

Tonight, I want that ruby in my own hand. Tonight I will have my own bliss. So, as Her Majesty slumbers and drools, I pry it from her liver spotted hand and tip toe off to my own rooms.

I fist the red jewel and wonder what will happen when I press it to my own forehead. Will I go where she went? Will I learn something grand? Or will I just close my eyes and think of England?

No. I’ll have none of that. I won’t be bound by duty for duty has been a prat.

I will not press it to my head, but another part it will be. After removing my frock, I knock back a few wine spritzers with a raised pinky. Then – not knowing where I will get – I press the Queen’s red stone to my dainty English clit.


Warmth, no…heat.

Humming, no…vibration.

Wet, tingly, wanting, I close my eyes. When I open them, Buckingham Palace is gone, but the chilly moors surround me and there’s a drumming between my thighs. Wuthering Heights is in the distance, just as drab and ominous as Emily Bronte described.

I am naked and cold, but not alone!

Brooding and dark, his powerful shoulders are slumped as he walks toward me. Heathcliff sneers and he grabs my hand. “You require a good fuck,” he scowls deadpanned. Faint with desire  and shivering from the wind, I lie down naked on the wet grass and spread my legs, my self, my very soul to him. His cock is hard in his rough hand and he eyes my wet princess part with glare hotter than sin. As the reeds poke my ass, the unsmiling Gypsy mounts me and grunts like a wildman. Electric fire shoots through my body and I clench his black hair in my hands. I succumb to the sensation and the moors disappear as I…

I am on my bed back at the palace. I am still quivering; throbbing. Mud and weeds stick to my skin, black hair tangled in my fingers. I can still smell him. Heathcliff is gone, but I see the Palace’s copy of Wuthering Heights on my nightstand.

Of course!

So, that’s how it works…

The next night, after I liberate the stone from the sleeping Highness, I steal a VHS tape from the rooms of my Prince Charles, the charmless.  A few wine spritzers later, I shed my clothes. I pop Dr. No into the VCR and the ruby on my royal button until it glows.

He is not 007, but really closer to ten…inches. A unloyal tease! He refuses me his manhood but I am thankful his smirking mouth also possesses a License to Kill and a willingness to please. And slay me, he does. His hot tongue flicks fast while his lips pulse slow. And his fingers, oh, his fingers, are strong and pulling my trigger, oh…

The next fortnight I escape to distant places for dalliances and desire. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Knightly tag team me at Pemberley in the tower. My time with Hamlet is mad and frothy and fast! Lady Chatterley’s lover spanks me in the barn as George Emerson and Sherlock Holmes wait their turn at the lash. Long John Silver is indeed long while Winston Smith is like a man out of jail. Willy Wonka is sweet and sticky and hung like a clydesdale. Lancelot and Billy Budd are a pure joy and more, but Dorian Gray understands and treats me like a whore.

After I have exhausted the most handsome and beguiling of British fiction – literally and figuratively, I set my lusty eyes on my secret record collection. I flip through the titles. Bowie. Bryan Ferry. Marc Bolan. Clapton. Page and Plant. Billy Idol. Adam Ant. Ozzy Osbourn, why not? All will have their moment with my gem inspired twat, but first I go for Duran Duran. Rio, their second album, is fantastic and perfect and hot.

I slide the record out of the sleeve and let the beautiful smell of vinyl tickle my nose until anticipation becomes impatience and that itching grows. I drop the needle and touch the magic ruby to my hooded lady.

Burning and aroused, I twitch and simmer as the precious rock hums and glimmers until I’m ready to go.

I close my eyes and think of Rio.


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