HM Carl XVI Gustaf, King of Sweden (Reality) & Philoctetes (Disney's Hercules)

You'd think it would be easy, as a monarch, to find love. Dozens, hundreds, possibly thousands of women – and probably others – lined up, to choose from. Most of them probably want me for my power, the title of Queen of Sweden, the money, or possibly the supreme, diamond-polished bald spot on my head. It isn't, however, for myself.

There are multiple reasons. Fist off, it's hard to get conversationally into someone deep enough to develop a relationship when duty calls 24 hours per day. Second – have you seen some of the fashion choices young people make? Horrendous.

But the main reason? I have a thing for satyrs.

It's difficult to find young, greek god/ess-bodied people attractive when all you can think about, is the coarse fur of the leg half, the soft but distinct clip-clop of hooved feet, and the bulbous, hairy stomach that rests majestically upon muscled, furry thighs.

It's oddly specific, I know. It all started as a dream. In a moment of weakness, I'd allowed myself a Disney movie before bed. It was Hercules. Now, most people into cartoons would likely look at Hercules' glowing muscles or Meg's petite, beautiful body. I can't say I paid too much attention to the small satyr called Philoctetes either. It was what happened that night that changed everythig.

As I went to rest my head upon the royal pillows of my bed, I had a strange sensation that this would be a special night, somehow. Perhaps it was because of the moon casting its shimmery, gloomy glow over the room through my open windows, or the way the curtains blew softly in the gentle breeze of the night.

Any which way, I fell asleep quickly. What felt like moments later, I felt the unmistakable feeling of a soft kiss pressed to my kingly cheek.
“Good evening, Carl,” a rough, nasal voice whispered in my ear.
I startled, eyes wide open and body instinctively jolting away from the unexpected event. I found a small and rather voluptuous creature crouching next to my bed. He must have seen my eyes shining with fear, for he took a tentative step into the soft moonlight to reveal himself.

From his round, red nose and the minuscule horns perched atop his head, the short, fat arms, the giant, spherical stomach dusted with a fine layer of coarse hairs and blending into his thin, bony goat legs, to the tip of his adorable tail, I knew he was perfect. A feeling I'd never felt the like of before arose low in my gut.

“Hello, Carl,” the creature whispered again, voice going straight to my royal baloney pony. I've known how to stand at attention for as long as I've been able to stand at all, and my kingly meat soldier was doing it perfectly within a moment's notice.
“P-Philoctetes?” I asked tentatively.
“Shh, Carl, I'm here,” he mused, utilizing his full strength to climb onto the bed which was near as tall as he was, “you can call me Phil. I know you've been waiting for me.”

It was like a sleeping beast awoke within me. No longer, had it been than for Phil to climb onto the silken sheets, than I launched myself at him, crashing my royal lips to his rough, animalistic mouth. He embraced me as deep as his short arms would allow. Our tongues wrestled for dominance as he skillfully manured me onto my belly.
“We don't hav much time Carl – do you want me?” he breathed into my ear, taking it into his mouth and biting softly.
“Yes!” I gasped, “Phil, yes!”

It's a blur, really – but I'll never forget the feeling of his short sausage fingers, covered with his own saliva, finding their way into the hole I never dared to touch even with my own royal fingers.

His beautiful goat sausage penetrated me thoroughly that night.

And to this day, that is why I stutter in speeches – I just cannot stop thinking of riding Philoctetes flesh thermometer whenever a slight breeze reaches my clenching butthole.

Signed, Carl XVI of Sweden

Skriven 25 maj 2017