Thrones of Desire Page 7

  There would be time for our bed. Now I wanted to show him the stars. I knew them better than anyone. Not their names or their place in the heavens like scholars did, but the dust of them, the shimmer and glint, the feel of their bodies.

  I led him out into the night air, cool and clean with early fall, perfumed with autumn roses. I pulled him onto the grass beneath a flowering tree and kept him under me, so he could see the sprays of stars through the branches.

  He kissed my other breast. I wasn’t pink. He didn’t seem to mind.

  My tongue traced each of his scars, and his breath deepened to groaning. Even in the dark, my hand found his hardness easily. He bucked at the first touch, gripping my thighs beneath my petticoat.

  “We don’t have to,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “I want to.”

  “We don’t know each other,” he said. He was right. I wouldn’t have known his middle name if my mother hadn’t told it to me. I knew nothing of what trees he preferred climbing as a child, his favorite season, if each of his scars was from defending our town as a young man, or if some came from his boyhood.

  I would learn. He would learn me.

  “Let me be your cure,” I whispered, my words veiled from anyone but him by the wind through the flowering tree. He was still tormented by my wish. He would be until he knew pleasure.

  He let me take hold of his erection, so taut I thought he might finish with the first brush of my fingers. I wouldn’t have minded. But he lasted, holding my hips as I guided him into me. He broke me, and I felt the sting and rush of it. Even in his pleasure, he looked guilty. I kissed him, inviting his tongue between my lips, and we both forgot our shyness. He found the point between my legs where I was most sensitive and touched it as relentlessly as he had fought his bonds.

  I bit the base of his neck to tell him to press into me harder. His body obeyed. He held a hand on the small of my back to stop me moving so he could keep me still and keep his fingers on me. My body filled with light and heat. I had never known this of the flicker of stars in my blood, that it held such heat.

  I cried out at the surprise of it. He held me but would not stop. My body was releasing all the star’s light I had held inside me under the opal’s weight. Now it blazed like a moon stripped of clouds. It screamed from me, a thousand blades of light. I was sure the world would break like the silver chair. The stars would rain onto the earth around us, our bodies shivering with their tremulous light.

  IN THE KINGDOM OF ROZ

  Madeline Moore

  I am the daughter of a king who has twelve daughters and twice as many sons, born to him by five wives. I am the only daughter of his fifth wife, Queen Shalilah. While I am not the most, oom, important daughter of a king, my mother tells me she is his favorite and certainly she is his youngest. She was married on her Woman-Day because the King of Roz wanted her. Today I am finally a woman, too, but no king has claimed me, so it is not my wedding day but the day when my husband will be chosen. My name is Asha.

  In the Kingdom of Roz we do not have slaves; instead we have servants who stay with us forever, whether they wish to or not. When a child of nobility is born the baby is gifted with the babies of servants. I was gifted with six girl babies when I was born, but my favorite is Matinna. She is the one I like to night-play and sleep with. She is sleeping now, while I am awake, my dreams dismissed in favor of the deliciousness of real life. I pinch her plump cheeks until, with a groan, her lids flutter open to reveal bleary pale blue eyes. I giggle when her grumpy moan abruptly ends as she remembers the importance of the day. Her eyes goggle. She thrashes at the heavy coverlet to escape its confines and throw her arms around me.

  “Happy Woman-Day, Princess Asha,” she whispers.

  Our lips meet in a gentle kiss that quickly becomes more amorous than playful. We have been girl-playing since puberty. That’s the way things are done in the Kingdom of Roz.

  “Draw my bath!” I toss my head imperiously. Honey-colored hair cascades down my back. By the time the doors to our walled kingdom are thrown wide and I ride through them, naked as a babe, only this hair (and the ornaments my servants weave into it) will afford me a minimal veil of modesty.

  “Yes, Princess,” she says. She curtseys, pretending to hold out the sides of an imaginary skirt. Like me, she sleeps naked. If she is sad that this is the end of our nights together, she shows no sign. She’s a good servant as well as a marvelous playmate. Her role will be different after today, but she will still be mine until the day I die. Only then will Matinna be free.

  Chaos! What a flurry of activity circles me after my bath. I am descended upon by a buzzing cloud of servants; like bees they hover and yes, occasionally, sting. I do nothing but sit or stand or turn this way or that as they polish every inch of me until I am iridescent and my hair gleams, sparkles and miraculously extends all the way to my knees.

  We aren’t early but we are not late, so when my mother arrives for a quick council before I am smuggled out of the palace so that I may reenter astride my mare, she is pleased. I know this because she allows the smallest of smiles to cross her lips while she shoos my girls away.

  As she speaks she expertly weaves into my hair some of the long, strange feathers that began to arrive, one at a time, starting at the moment of my birth and continuing to do so on each of The Day of Festivities that celebrates that glorious moment. Every time, at the end of The Day, my mother shows me the new long, thin, vibrantly hued feather and then spirits it away, always with a finger to her lips to remind me that this is our secret.

  “Keep your back straight. Do not appear coy or embarrassed. You must stay serene, no matter what. Do not respond to any calls from the crowd. Keep your eyes forward, focused only on the palace.”

  She pauses to present me with my newest secret gift. This time the feather is particularly exquisite. It is scarlet, darker in some spots than others. When I touch the feather the dark spots are wet. Wet like the eyes of the Queen when I look at her, the unspoken question hovering between us. When she takes the feather back, her hand trembles briefly, then she is all business again as she nimbly braids it in with the others.

  “If a nipple should show, care not, but correct the situation as soon as possible. Watch for us. Your father and I will be seated on the dais before the palace doors. There will be an empty throne between us. When you arrive, allow a groomsman to offer his hand, if you need it, to help you dismount. Better if you don’t require it, but much better to accept his assistance than to appear ungainly or, Gods-no-shadow-upon-us, fall.

  “Approach the throne with deference. Your father will drape the white fur cloak around you and seat you between us. After that, you need only sit prettily while your suitors present themselves. There will be many in the first round, which will pass quickly. We, the three of us, shall choose six and from those six your prince shall be selected. By sunset, you will be engaged to be married. Married, Asha!”

  At this, she opens her arms wide in a mock embrace. She kisses the air around me but touches me not. I am exquisitely prepared for my entrance to the kingdom and even the Queen dares not chance marring my perfection with a caress.

  It is a shock to see that she has begun to weep. I yearn to do the same, I know not why. But I cannot allow the tears that film my gray eyes to spill. Although my face appears unadorned I have been dusted and sparkled and delicately rouged and glossed. Tears, my tears, are not allowed.

  My mother laughs and the weeping ceases.

  “I fear I become a crone,” she mutters as she dusts her cheeks with my powder. In a moment her face is once again the mask of perfection I am used to.

  She leads me through the secret tunnel from my room to the back of the palace and out, ever so briefly, into the bright blue morning. There sits a carriage that will take me from the palace to the place where my mount, as polished and decorated as I, awaits. The ceremony begins at high sun.

  I tremble as the carriage driver throws open the door to the plain carriage that is,
according to ceremony, to spirit me undetected away from the castle. Normally he would help me, but today it is my mother who stands by in case I need assistance. If she sees the subtle shaking of my knees she doesn’t comment. I enter the carriage gracefully without her help and am rewarded with an almost imperceptible nod of her head.

  I’m thrilled to see it. I have always known my mother loves me but today I know Queen Shalilah is proud of Princess Asha. My heart hammers with joy.

  From my velvet cushion I can peek out one corner of the curtained carriage window as we pass down the road that is already decorated for my arrival. The crowd will not be allowed to assemble until the great doors shut behind us. Until then, the kingdom must pretend there is nothing special about today and may not pay attention to the simple carriage that passes down the road on The Day of Festivities. Such a wonderful game we are playing! The people of the Kingdom of Roz know their duty and fulfill it admirably. Even the children, who will shortly be shrieking with delight, are hushed. I notice one little girl who must hide her rosy cheeks in her mother’s skirts to keep her face from betraying delight. I feel love for her, love for the people, love for my soon-to-be-prince. I am full to overflowing with it, so much so that when we have passed through the heavy, open doors to the kingdom and arrive at the meeting spot outside the palace walls, my velvet cushion is damp.

  Oh, I am so ready to be married!

  I must wait inside the carriage, its door open, while the kingdom completes the preparation for my arrival. I can hear the cacophony as the crowd surges forward, jostling for position alongside the road. I wriggle on the velvet cushion, wetting it further. Carefully, I reach between my legs, lift my bum and flip the cushion over. None too soon, as a moment later the carriage driver appears, signaling that the time has come.

  I alight, again unaided, and wait while my mare is brought to me. I almost gasp with delight at her silky white coat and gaily decorated mane and tail, but remember, just in time, that I am a woman princess now and not a girl who exposes every fleeting thought to those who serve her. Instead, the same almost imperceptible nod I have observed (and practiced) as my mother’s lets them know I am pleased.

  Gilded reins lay limp across my horse’s back. There is a soft suede patch that is placed so that my private parts will be protected whilst it will appear that I ride entirely bareback. We are an athletic people and I will ride astride her, not sidesaddle, as some silly princesses in other kingdoms must. There will be no bloody sheets waved to the crowd the morning after my wedding night either. Most of the princesses of the Kingdom of Roz, though each must of course be a virgin on her wedding day, do not bleed upon first penetration. There have been too many hunts and games (to say nothing of the girl-play we are encouraged to engage in) for such foolishness. A princess of Roz is not required to prove anything. It is her prince who must prove he is strong and healthy and rich and worthy of her hand. Hah!

  I place my foot in the palm of the groomsman and mount my horse. She tosses her head. Bells tinkle. Oh, she is vain, my pretty mare! It’s a surprise to see that among her ornaments are the rest of my strange, secret feathers. I stroke her mane gently, careful not to dislodge any trinkets, hers or mine. I arrange my hair so that my nipples are covered while my firm white mounds remain visible. Great Gods of Roz, this is going to be fun! I nod. The driver and groomsman jump up on the carriage. A moment later, the heavy doors to the Kingdom of Roz, made of whole trees and solid bolts of iron, begin to close behind them. The roar of the crowd, all pretense at normalcy vanished as the empty carriage bounces toward the palace, assaults my ears before the great doors swing closed again and all sounds from inside are muted.

  Time passes. I cannot remember when I was last alone. It’s discomfiting. I remember my mother’s words: back straight, eyes forward, nipples covered. What if the one for me is not among the princes already gathered at the palace? My mother has been happy with her king. If it bothered her to be the last of five wives she never said so. She has led the pampered, protected life of a queen but—what if that isn’t the life for me?

  Goose bumps pimple my skin. No! I will not have my people see me frightened or cold or whatever it is that has caused this aberration of my flesh.

  I prepare a regal expression with which to greet my people. This was all decided long before I was born or my mother was born or her mother and so on. Even the King, an old man now but still all powerful, could do nothing to change the course of events about to unfold, if he wanted to, which I have no reason to believe that he does. Yes, it is different for a prince or a king when the time comes to choose a wife, but that isn’t my father’s doing or his father’s or even his father’s…and so on.

  This is the way things are done in the Kingdom of Roz.

  My scream is stifled to a strangled “Oomph” as I am snatched from the back of my mare before my ears have even registered the noise of galloping hooves behind me. It cannot be.

  I have been kidnapped!

  It cannot be!

  My obedient mare stays put. Likely, once the great doors open again, she will begin her practiced prance toward the palace, sans princess, because the princess is now thrown across the broad neck of a black stallion, in front of a saddle. A new scream attempts to follow the first but this one is spanked into another ineffectual sound. Spanked!

  Three more blows strike my helpless bum. A leather glove provides extra strength, not that it is needed. The slaps hurt, each more than the last. And the indignity of it! I am actually more indignant than afraid, at this moment, but when one gloved finger carelessly penetrates me fear obliterates any other emotion.

  I wriggle, which causes my captor to laugh.

  “You like it deeper? Allow me to oblige.” He pushes his thick, gloved finger all the way inside me so that the rest of his gloved hand is splayed across my rear. All the while, one-handed, he urges his great black steed deeper into the woods.

  “Stop it!”

  I dare not wriggle for that obviously encourages him to abuse me further. Perhaps it is possible to reason with him? I try to look to the side and get a mere glimpse of a muscled body dressed in black before a tree branch snatches at my hair.

  “If you value your pretty face you’ll keep it down,” he growls.

  There is truth to his words. With my face against the stallion’s neck, my threats sound muffled and ineffectual, even to my ears.

  “My father is the King of Roz! You will be hunted down and beheaded! Release me at once!”

  At this he pulls tight on the reins. His steed rears, thrashing its front legs. My captor’s invading finger slips free of me, but only so he may thrash me with the reins, first on my bum and then as I roll across the back of his horse, over the saddle and up against his crotch, across my naked thighs.

  “Do not ever issue orders to me. Understand?”

  My back is breaking. The sting of the reins is so deep I’m sure they are cutting my flesh. I burst into tears.

  The madman allows the horse to touch down again just long enough to roll me over so I am facedown, my body still pressed against his crotch, then pulls hard on the reins and up the steed rears.

  “Answer me!”

  I wail with fear and pain.

  Two gloved fingers penetrate my quim, stretching me wider than I have ever been stretched.

  “I am Princess Asha!” I scream it as loud as I can.

  This is not the answer he desires. His fingers plunge faster, harder, while his thumb finds my pleasure point and mashes it. Still he lays on what stripes he can while urging his steed to rear, drop and rear again.

  To my utter amazement, I am filled with a rolling sensation, fast as a wind-driven thundercloud. My shrieks become moans. The cloud is dense, dark, centered in my loins for an intolerable moment before it releases a crack of jagged lightning that is the harshest, wildest climax of my life.

  The horse ceases rearing. The reins stop thrashing. The punishing fingers slide free of me. My pleasure center clenches and release
s a dozen times, each release accompanied by rain that wets me, the saddle, the heaving sides of the stallion.

  I sob against the horse’s shiny satin neck. The orgasm has utterly betrayed me. I finally understand what has happened. I am helpless.

  “Answer me,” he whispers.

  “I understand,” I reply. I close my eyes.

  The forest is suddenly silent.

  My captor dismounts. He cradles me in his arms and coos, “Brave little princess, pretty princess, so sweet, so fearless…”

  My eyes remain closed and my body limp, but his words soothe. He cuddles me to his chest. I smell man-sweat and the deeper scent of musk, which must be man-lust. So he doesn’t want to murder me, at least, not before he takes me. If his intention is only to rape me he might as well finish me off, for a sullied princess is of no use to anyone but the crones that tend to the temples.

  Though we are deep in the forest we hear the sound of the great doors opening. Once my mare begins her solo journey past the shocked faces of the crowd, a rescue party, perhaps made up of princes, will soon set out.

  “They won’t find us,” he says.

  Chaos on this man. Is he a mind reader, too?

  He props me up against a tree.

  “Time to test the princess,” he says. “Open your eyes.”

  I am wise enough not to disobey him. My raw, burning bum, now pressed against rough bark, is an easy reminder of the consequences of doing so. I open my eyes.

  He is not what I expected from the brief glimpse I had of him earlier. I’d imagined him in black leather but the hide he wears is soft and there is not a lot of it. From hip to ankle he is covered but where a gentleman’s breeches should be there is nothing but a pouch, a rather large pouch, and strings to keep his private parts, oom, private.

  “So far, so good?”