After midnight, the halls and stairways of Elsinore Castle were as quiet as the stones that shaped them, visited only by a dead king's ghost and fading whispers from behind closed doors. Ophelia, naked under her sheets, listened from her bed for a certain set of footsteps. It was well after the appointed time, and she cupped eager breasts in a vain attempt to soothe their pleas for his touch. "False hands," she whispered to her caresses, "you only play at what he brings me." 

None too soon, her great wooden door, left just the barest crack open, squeaked its warning of a visitor. A shadow crept to her bed and Ophelia's smile welcomed the rustle of clothing slipping to the floor. Her breath caught in her throat as the phantom greeted her in the usual way, lips fastening hard upon her left nipple, sucking it wholly into a hungry mouth. Ophelia moaned and put both hands in her lover's long hair, holding his head to her breast as he pulled mercilessly at the tender bud. 

"I have missed you so," breathed her lover, leaving a swollen nipple to kiss a smooth neck. 

"My father has fears you shall seduce me." Ophelia squeezed his erect member, playfully shaking that which plucked her maidenhead only a few months ago.

The Danish prince kissed her full on the lips. "So the noble Polonius is afraid his daughter might find herself in a position... like this?" Hamlet got between her thighs, his hardness a cloaked beggar at her moist door. 

"Father dreads such rude activity," said Ophelia, sliding fingertips down his back. "His daughter lives for it." Spiking sharp nails into his buttocks, Ophelia joined him with a sure thrust of her hips. "Better now?" Ophelia knew the sudden heat must be like an angel's mouth seizing him; she prayed it was.

Hamlet closed his eyes, groaning his approval. "Nothing better," he said into her long red hair, twisting her wild curls between his fingers, beginning slow, deep strokes into her. 

They loved quietly in the close darkness, their breathing the only sound in the room, heard by none but a king's ghost lingering by the door before moving on down the torch-lit hall. Ophelia soon wrapped long legs around his back, one of the signals she realized the prince had come to know. He gathered her hands above her head as he thrust faster. 

She shuddered with pleasure, watching him smile as her nails bit him. He withdrew abruptly, leaving her gasping, and brought his hardness to her lips. "My sweet Ophelia," he whispered as she caught his slick fish in her mouth's warm net, tongue tasting her own salty waters from which it had leapt. 

"Mmm, you do that almost as well as the queen's French lady-in-waiting. Ow!" 

"And I shall bite you again, my lord, if you dare say any loves you better." She swallowed him whole, mouth pressing hard against his body, wondering into what other hot, dark grottoes this fish had swum. She knew about Yvette. Her servants told Ophelia everything. There had also been the Norwegian princess, and the daughter of the wealthy English merchant who came to the court to talk of trade for a week; Hamlet never came to her bed in all that time. She'd heard about the black-haired Spanish dancer who entertained the royalty in the evening, and Hamlet later in her bed. There was also his tryst in a high tower with a Bavarian duchess. She knew that tale to be true as her brother, Laertes, boasted of having shared the bosomy blonde with the prince.

Closing her eyes, she sucked even more strongly until he moaned and clutched at her hair. 

"Ahh, most wicked vixen! You shall slay me!" 

Ophelia released him and, pressing tingling lips to his scrotum, secretly kissed the children she longed to bear him. "In truth, my lord, 'tis you who kills me," she whispered. 

Hamlet tipped her face up to him. "My sword again needs to be sheathed in its favorite scabbard, my dear." 

"Then the scabbard desires to be filled." Ophelia straddled him, hair falling to her waist, and eased herself onto him with soft sighs. Once seated, she placed his hands on her small, firm breasts and rode him with a gentle, rolling motion of her hips. All those horseback lessons from the Swiss cavalier were finally proving of some use. 

"Does your Parisian wench please you in this manner, my lord?" 

"No," said Hamlet, truthfully. "She likes it from behind, crouching like a cat on all fours, and begs me speak to her roughly, like a whore." 

"No doubt words she's accustomed to hearing." Ophelia gripped him tightly with vaginal muscles made strong from long hours' practice with candles, the same ones used to cast the spell tempting him to look into her grey eyes one evening at dinner. She was witch enough to know love could not be commanded, only provoked. 

"My moon is not yet with me," she whispered to his lips, leaning down until her breasts flattened upon his chest. "Spare not your seed. I have missed its warmth." 

Rewarding her with a tender kiss, Hamlet gripped her bottom, and Ophelia gasped into his mouth as the prince began his powerful thrusting. Whimpering her pleasure into his shoulder, Ophelia quivered and shook along with him when she felt his juices spurt freely hot and deep inside her. As she lay trembling upon him, the prince of Denmark brushed damp curls from her face.

The way the moonlight slanted into the room reminded her time was short, and Ophelia began kissing down his chest until her bosom warmed his thighs. "Ahh, you complete harlot," groaned Hamlet. "How you have conquered this prince." 

Taking his limp member into her mouth, the most talented witch in all of Denmark began lazily tracing secret symbols on his chest, working a favorite spell. Ophelia made little noises of satisfaction as his shaft revived, fingers spelling the ancient incantation on his belly. 

"Can your French tart summon your manhood from its drunken sleep like this?" she asked, tongue flicking at the throbbing, waking head. 

"No woman on this earth has your mouth, my love. What sorcery lives in those sweet lips that also kiss babies and her father's cheek?" Hamlet's gasped as Ophelia's teeth pulled gently at the wrinkled flesh of his testicles. 

"Sweet prince," she murmured against the risen staff, "there is no magic greater than love." She crept up beside him, whispering in an old language he would never understand, and circled her tongue three times around his heart-nipple to keep him faithful tonight. She could feel the French girl restless in her bed, waiting. 

"Once more. Once more, my love," she said and lay on her back. Wordlessly Hamlet got between her knees, which were bent into soft triangles to accept him. Both moaned as he slid effortlessly all the way inside her. For her it was like a key turning in a lock, recovering her lost half, completing her, and joining them to the rhythms of the universe.

"Shall I spend my pleasure within you again?" he asked, his sharp thrusts a question. 

"No. Give me what I like." 

The prince chuckled against her neck, continuing the hard, stabbing thrusts, each one forcing a soft cry from her. When she shook again, she hissed in an odd language she hoped he'd believe to be some provincial dialect. He withdrew and placed his glistening hardness between her breasts. Ophelia smoothed strands of hair from her face and gathered the long tresses behind her shoulders. 

"I'm ready, my love." With both hands she molded warm breast-flesh around his length. Hamlet loved her bosom as she listened to him breathing, anticipating his release. She knew he found her wild and strange. When Ophelia's eyes caught his at dinner, on the stairs, or at some dull ceremony at court, she always willed his pulse to quicken, prayed his manhood would sharpen like a dagger; and she somehow knew it did.

"Ahhh....my....sweet!" Hamlet slid from the soft trap of her breasts and grabbed his member, bringing it to her chin, tipped back to receive him. 

Her hands gripped the sheets. Ophelia gasped as hot seed splashed upon her face. It felt like stars melting on her skin, spreading a web of warmth. On the tip of her tongue she caught a salty droplet and smoothed it over her lips. Hamlet, groaning above her, continued to lash her with long, thick streams of his essence. The enchantment would drain him completely. Ophelia smiled, knowing he would summon nothing for a week, and her rivals would doubt their abilities. She felt a last few drops kissing her forehead, and knew he was finished. 

Breathing heavily, Hamlet kissed her damp belly and got out of her bed. He would not to speak to her now. She would lie like this, as if in a trance, for hours. The prince dressed in silence and headed for the door, pausing only to waver, as if allowing a dizziness to pass. Ophelia felt Yvette waiting, but knew Hamlet was too exhausted to care. The old wooden door creaked a farewell, and Hamlet went into the hallway. At the far end, a father's ghost wavered, waiting.

The moonlight made of her face a shining silver mask as Ophelia lay quietly in her bed, humming. 

I could drown, she thought. I would love to drown like this.

Copyright © 2001 Clint Collins. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.