Queen Madder's Escape

Ah Lydia. Lydia stalking away, her back trembling with rage. How many times have I seen this sight? A thousand? More? Lydia of the ashen hair but still flaming temper; she of a thousand grudges and irritations. Eyes of simmering coals, black yet glistening with ire. I see her neck muscles twitching like fresh bled intestines, cords dashing in and out of her smooth cream skin, flexing with each indignant shudder. Her fingers grip her own blade sharp elbows, nail beds white with tension. She turns slightly to flash a snarl of pure disgust at me. I smile indulgently. My pretty spoiled pet. My hopelessly frustrated ornament, too impetuous to enjoy the luxuries she has; too stupid to change her lot. A frivolous fool, whose body I lap each night as though she were a tasty morsel spread on a platter for my delectation alone. She sees my laughter and attempts to rebuff my charms; insulted by my lack of remorse she stalks away. She will crawl back later, sulking done, to demand more delights.

I turn and beckon a slave to oil my breasts, massaging my womanly nipples with gentle strokes. Pleasant but not sexual. My sex is in the chase; the blow of their final capitulation. Their defeat sends me into paroxysms of joy.

Soon I will have to dispose of Lydia. She has entertained me longer than most -- her selfish spirit means she has not yet relinquished her demanding self. Even so, I tire of her childishness; her lack of conversation. I shall seek a new companion.

I waft away the eager man. These slaves tire me so -- always vying for attention. Their constant display of effort is wearing. They know that one day soon I must choose a husband from them but they do not comprehend how my flesh down to my nails and tongue balks and shudders at the notion of their trying touch. Attractive they may be, but their souls are empty, swallowed by being centred around my whim. They have no original thought; no genuine desire. Bred only to please. They bore me. They disgust me. I dream of slitting their desperate throats. Of running into the Outer City and beyond. To find perhaps an outlaw, or a Wildman. To fight and fuck and feel all that we animals should feel. To understand what it is to be pinned down or hurt; to be defeated and yield to a greater power. To master myself and prove my worth; to be as equal with another and see our glory reflected in each other's eyes.

Dagil enters, disturbing my fantasy. His face is lined and set in perfect constant seriousness. I may be Queen but Dagil is my jailer. He has raised me from an orphan child; taught me to manage an Empire; shown me propriety and bearing and all the other wretched rules that trap me in the palace. He has built for me a dungeon of excessive physical bliss. He has perfected my body and allowed me indulgence, yet he has caged my educated mind and kept me from my true desires.

Today Dagil carries another sheaf of documents for me to read and sign. I suppose I could disagree or refuse but what would be the point? My opinions may differ from his but the army follows his orders; the civil forces are directed by him. My face is on the coinage but he controls the banks. Besides, he has not been unkind to me. Where many other guardians would have slain me in my crib and taken the Empire for themselves, Dagil fed me, played with me, send me abroad for the finest education. For a while, he was my lover, but that changed after my son was born. We could not legally wed and no Queen may give birth out of wedlock and so my married brother took him. To this day, he knows me as Aunt. Dagil feared more issue and so I turned my attention to feminine wiles and the allure of soft curvatures, whilst Dagil became as a teacher and friend. A friend who nevertheless maintains his own position and power at my expense.

"Hapmorn, Majesty."

He bows stiffly and dismisses the slaves so that we are alone.

"Dagil. I have not seen you all week. How was your trip to the Crumdojji Peninsular?"

He leans forwards and plants a friendly kiss upon my lips. I hide my shudder in a smile. I cannot say why but there are times he disgusts me, when all I can feel is dirty and all I can see are his greying pores and leathery skin.

"It went well, Madder. The rebels have dissipated and the Prince has begun to open a very beneficial trade route. How have you fared in my absence?"

"You know"

I shrug deeply.

"If I am honest, Dagil, I have found this week somewhat beset by ennui. I think perhaps it is time Lydia returned to her family in Sarada."

He nods seriously, face concentrated as though I were giving detailed orders of state, not dismissing a glorified servant.

"She will be on the hover train by dusk. I must say I am glad -- she has certainly been a nuisance of late, and the slaves have commented on the noise of her shouting."

I am suddenly filled with a hollow lethargy that means I cannot reply. I nod vaguely. Dagil leans in and rests a hand on my shoulder. I feel as though he is taking me as reclaimed property. Nausea sweeps through me and I stifle it with a deep yawn. It may be beyond him to assassinate me now I am adult but I have no illusions; he could take the remnants of my power with a gesture of his jewelled hand. His hand slips down onto my breast and cups me lightly. I want to bite his hand off, kick him and watch him bleed to death on the floor. Instead, I turn and kiss his arm. His grip tightens and I realise with a sinking feeling that his affections have returned.

He leans close, kissing my neck, and whispers into the flesh of my earlobe.

"Madder, my one girl, I saw a sage on my journey. He told me..."

He pauses, searching for words.

"...Of ways... for lovers to prevent..."

The words hang unsaid in the air. I feel his fingers tracing my neck, pressing lightly. He is always gentle but I sense the potential in his sinew; the ability to choke me at a moment's notice.

My mind races, searching for what to say. The animal in me wants to shriek and run. The strategist remains calm and pragmatic, scanning through the ways this could be turned to my advantage.

I look into his eyes and smile, sweet and seeming full of desire.

"My Lord Dagil, nothing gives me greater joy than my desire for you. I have but one request."

I feel his body begin to harden and brim with heat. His lust, believing reciprocation, is inflaming and becoming full of foolish energy. I press against him, hoping a momentary lapse will play into my hands. His breathing thickens as I stroke his belly idly, looking into his faded eyes, wetting my lips and working ever closer to his manhood.

"Anything for you my sweet -- you know I have only your interests and happiness at heart."

I unbutton his codpiece and begin stroking his glistening glans, erect and demanding attention. I dart my tongue across the tip teasingly and gaze up at him with a mask of adoration.

"Give me charge of the banks, my sweet -- I long to do something with my mind and you know how the mathematical arts amuse me so. You can of course retain the other sections and I am sure I will tire of it soon, but give me a few weeks to invigorate..."

At that word I squeeze tightly and arch my back.

"my mind."

He walks round to face me and pulls me to my feet, swinging me off balance and throwing me to the rug. He looks down at me for a moment, stroking himself, and then bears down upon me, spreading my legs with force. I look into his eyes as he remains poised there, enjoying the delicious anticipation.

"Please, my sweet Lord?"

He smiles winningly, believing me every bit the lazy overindulged idiot that I have played these past years.

"Anything my love".

He drizzles a strange purple oil over our most tender parts and slips himself inside me with a grunt and a force that grinds me into the floor and rocks my breasts. He clutches my thighs and ploughs me hard, opening me to his raw lust. I feign enjoyment and focus on the ceiling fresco, admiring the voluptuous opulence of the scene of satyrs and nymphs. He gasps and spasms, face contorted, and spills his seed. I allow him to wilt inside me, cradling his thin frame as he regains his breath. For a second I feel how easy it would be to snap or suffocate his tired body, but my brother would soon use it as an excuse to snatch the throne.

At length, he gathers his serious composure once more and dresses in silence. He shuffles his papers and pauses only to tongue my mouth proprietarily, fingering my pussy to feel his warm cum inside me. This has always been his way; like a dog marking his territory he enjoys owning my body; he knows he is the only man to have taken me and a smugness plays around his stern aspect as he leaves quickly, with only a few words.

"I shall prepare the banks. Until later, your Majesty."

I nod, feigning satisfied sleepiness. As the door closes behind him, I rush to my bathing room. Though I know his appetite for carnal pleasure is large and he will certainly disturb my sleep tonight, I mist wash away the scent of him; the ooze of him. I must wipe off my disgust and persuade myself that it did not somehow feel good beneath the horror. That I did not enjoy being impaled upon his engorged, veined, throbbing cock. That his penis is not as large as my slender wrist. That the feeling of being owned and used and opened up and stretched and penetrated did not thrill me. That I do not long for a brutal touch and a masterful force to wield and pinch my body into sensation. That I do not secretly wish for more.