Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

The maid looked at Beck like she'd just sprouted a third eye. "My name?"

"You do have one, I take it?" Beck asked dryly.

The maid looked around as if searching for a way out. She swallowed. "Hope, My Lady."

"Hope? What am I hoping for?"

"No, My Lady, that is my name."

Beck arched her eyebrows. "Hope, hmm?"

The maid nodded.

"More like no hope in this joint."

"My Lady?"

"Never mind. Any chance of some brekky, Hope? Once we're done?"

"Breakfast, My Lady? I will see to it."

The prince was waiting in the breakfast room, pacing the floor. Now, in the searing light of day, he was wondering if the effort had all been worthwhile, fifty men, two RIBs and four SUVs, a transport helicopter, several dead and wounded. And kidnapping his father's bride was tantamount to stealing his horse, or, worse, his favourite falcon, notwithstanding the fact they were easily replaced. And, so far, she'd shown not the slightest hint of interest, in spite of his dashing good looks and the audacious rescue.

And therein lay the kernel of his desire. He'd dated actresses and pop stars, heiresses and socialites, not to mention some of the world's most gorgeous models. Every single one had thrown herself at him- some literally- gushing accolades, extolling his machismo and proclaiming their love. But not this little tigress he thought, then hastily changed species. Not this little gazelle. She seemed utterly unimpressed by his title or status, unmoved by his power, charisma and wealth. He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Beck descend the long, curved, staircase, still clad in her gold-embroidered silver silk pyjamas, with her skinny African maid following two steps behind.

"My Lady!" he beamed, "Rebekah."

"Good morning, Highness," she smiled, "or at least good afternoon."

The prince shepherded Beck to a seat beside the massive panoramic window, overlooking a spectacular vista of rugged desert mountains, ribbed with jagged, rocky ridges and scored with ravines. Far below the mountaintops on the sprawling flatlands, ranks of lunate orange dunes stretched all the way to heat-hazed infinity, a vast, gingerbread landscape baking under the midday sun.

"Would have loved to see this joint being built." Beck mused, as the prince pulled her chair out and she sat down.

"Cost twenty lives." the prince said, almost as if he were boasting.

Beck screwed her face up. "It what?"

The prince cursed inwardly. He'd spent many years in the West, at military college mostly, and learning to fly. Westerners, he'd learnt, took a dim view of such human sacrifice, and he hastened to gloss over the issue. "It was indeed a triumph." he nodded. "There is a movie you know, about me. How I found this very site, chasing wild horses on my favourite steed. Perhaps you have seen it?"

"On my list." Beck said, raking her hair back.

"I have a copy here. After breakfast... lunch... whatever, we can sit down and watch it together. I have a cinema downstairs. I play myself in the movie. You will be most amazed."

"Well..." Beck hedged, "I was sort of hoping to go for a walk. Outside. In the fresh air."

"After the movie?"

"Can't wait to see it, don't get me wrong. But I've been cooped up indoors for ages and I'd kill for a run."

"I urge you, My Lady," the prince persisted, "let us watch the movie instead. There is so much you have yet to learn about me."

Beck raised a hand. "That's okay. I'll just goggle it when I get home."

"When you can have the real thing?" the prince frowned. "When you can get the story from the horse's ear, as the Americans like to say? I am a prince, after all, and a pilot and a warrior, next in line to the throne, one of the oldest continuous monarchies in the world. Why wouldn't you want to learn all about me? My history? My achievements?" Image enhanced and larger than life, overinflated with poetic licence, cheesy, overblown and truth be known mostly fanciful.

"Perhaps tonight." Beck suggested, but not before she faked a coma.

Tonight? So she'd already made plans. Emboldened, Rashiid rubbed his hands. "Now, perhaps you'd care to take breakfast?"

Beck glanced at her make-believe watch. "Better call it brunch." she said, pointing at the ceiling. "With the sun that high up in the sky. How long did I sleep?"

"Nine hours?" the prince shrugged. "Ten?" While he watched her all night, on CCTV.

"Yeah..." Beck nodded hooking her hair behind a perfect little ear, "I guess I was pretty trashed. And so hungry right now I could eat a horse."

"Horse?" the prince asked, taken aback, one breath short of ordering a chef down to the stables. With a shotgun and some boning knives. "How do you want it?"

Beck threw her head back, laughing, and the prince stared at her perfect dentition. Not so much as a chip or a blemish, not so much as a crown or veneer. "It's just a saying where I come from." she sighed, patting his hand. "It means I'm famished."

"MAID!" the prince barked and the little African appeared out of nowhere. "Take Her Ladyship's order."

Beck reached out and squeezed the maid's skinny black wrist. "Can you do eggs?"

The maid looked from Beck to the prince, mouth working, nothing coming out. All the palace chefs were locals. The last expatriate maid who set foot in the kitchen had saucepan of boiling water thrown over her. "But..." she pleaded, "it is not permit-"

Rashiid banged the table. "She means take her order, you stupid-"

"No!" Beck glared at the prince. "If anyone's stupid it's me. I should have explained. Hope, would you be so kind as to order some eggs? On toast? Nice and rare..."

"Rare, My Lady?"

"Nice and runny. Sunny-side up."

The maid looked like she was in the grips of a seizure. "S... s... s..."

"Sunny side up." Beck said patiently, then flattened her hand, miming the action, "Not turned over."

The maid nodded, licking the sweat from her top lip.

"Any chance of some bacon?" Beck asked hopefully, then took one look at Rashiid's expression then changed her mind. "Didn't think so. How about some baked beans then? Sweetheart? Do you know what baked beans are?"

The maid, Hope, shook her head.

"Just ask the chef." Beck said gently. "Heinz. He'll know."

Hope swallowed. "A... a... a... anything el... el... el..."

"Sounds like a stuck record." Beck tittered, then quit while she was ahead. "No thanks, Hope. That will do."

Hope backed off with a bow, then bolted for a phone to ring the kitchen.

"I should have just done it myself." Beck sighed.

Slaves like Hope were a talen a dozen, plentiful, available and cheap to buy. They worked hard for next to nothing and were easily discarded, no questions asked. "My Lady." Rashiid said, "If you are displeased with the girl, I will get you a better one."

"Displeased?"

"If she's not to your liking."

"Of course she is, Your Highness. She's a Darling. Honestly. She's perfect."

Rashiid had heard tales of his younger brother's mother, Lady Niqiya. It was said she would ride on a white horse all over the city, in a simple blue burka, protected by naught but a pair of mounted security guards. Legend had it she would stop and talk to commoners, mainly women and children, asking after their health, their families' needs. And, verily, it seemed this stunning young tearaway now sitting beside him- same size, same looks, same carefree spirit of the fabled White Lady, not to mention same antipodean roots- was similar in spirit, if not identical. "You treat her too well." he said with a hint of petulance.

Beck inclined her head and gave him the eye. "You get more bees with honey than with vinegar, Your Highness."

Oblivious to her sage advice, Rashiid snapped his fingers and a uniformed steward hurried over, balancing a loaded silver tray. The prince tapped his antique Wedgwood cup with a teaspoon. "Coffee."

With a bow, the steward filled Rashiid's cup, poured in some creamer, then stood, coffee pot hovering over Beck's cup. "Coffee, My Lady?" Rashiid asked.

"Tea?"

Tea and coffee pots quickly changed hands. "Creamer, My Lady?"

Beck nodded, then looked up smiling at the steward. "Cheers." she said and the steward backed away, clearly shocked at the guest's simple civility. Beck took a sip and cast a long, wistful look out the panoramic window at the shimmering desert tableau. Its primary resident notwithstanding, the palace was gorgeous, architectural perfection with an outlook to die for. She dabbed her wet lips with a starched linen napkin. "You know," she said, "it really is a beautiful place you have here."

Another compliment! The girl was coming around. Rashiid took her hand. "Then I must take you for a tour and show you the grounds. And perhaps you might ask yourself, could this be your new forever home? Our forever home. Ours together."

Beck's eyes settled on the cool, blue, 40-meter infinity pool, 2 tiers below on a broad tiled terrace. "You know," she said under her breath, "with a pool like that..."

"My lady?"

"Sorry? Oh... what I mean is, listen, Your Highness, if it's okay with you, I'd really love to go for a swim."

"A s... s... s... swim?"

"Yes. A swim. It's been ages you know, and that pool looks absolutely delicious. Would that be okay?"

Swim? the prince thought. That would mean a swimsuit. "Of course!" he nodded. "You shall have a swim."

"Do you think Hope could lend me some swimmers? She's about my size."

"That won't be necessary." the prince replied. "We have many brand-new swim suits for you to choose from." Acquired by staffers overseas- the US, France, Italy, even Australia, the smallest, tightest, briefest, most expensive items money could buy.

"You have a store of brand-new swimmers?" Beck asked dryly.

Rashiid looked around in a panic, as if he'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "For my nieces." he said in a fit of inspiration.

Beck looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"I swear," Rashiid hastened, sweat popping out on his brow, "yours is the first visit to my palace by a strange girl."

"Strange?" Beck teased.

"I mean not a relative."

"I see." Beck said, "Then I guess that's okay."

The prince visibly slumped. And endless parade of often naked young females had graced that pool, during long, hot nights of carousing. With the Champagne flowing and the air heavy with the perfumed of hashish. "I think you're really going to love it here." he said. "When you swim in the pool it feels like swimming in the sky."

"Can't wait." Beck said, as Rashiid sat back staring at her, picturing her in a skimpy costume, so sheer it might have been sprayed on. His unbridled attention was starting to feel slightly creepy, as if she were some exotic specimen at a zoo, and The Beck suffered a transient flashback. To Roger Bragg. In the saloon of his newly restored sixty-foot yacht, on a reef, in the Pacific, on the morning of his birthday. With his wife, Tanya and Beck's old man looking on as she, Beck, sat naked on the table, in front of Bragg. The look on his face had been just like Rashiid's. Completely besotted.

Her old man's words popped into her head. 'Men are like tiles.' he'd told her one day, when Beck was teasing him for being such a pushover. 'Lay them properly in the first place, and you can walk all over them the rest of their lives.' And she suddenly realised. If she gave this puffed-up braggart a little taste of her wares, she could leverage the favour for benefits downstream. Like finding Ally. And getting the fuck out of his madhouse. A nice little blowie should get the ball rolling, then withhold the prize till some of her own demands had been fulfilled. And anyway, if it meant avoiding a date with his dad, the human elephant seal... "A nice little swim." she said and lay her hand on his, "That's what I'd like. And maybe later on..."

"Later on?"

"Tonight. You're right. Let's watch your movie. And if one thing leads to another..."

The prince performed his very best owl imitation. "Wh... wh... wh... what do you mean?"

"Well... if you're not busy..."

The rattle of crockery on a trolley heralded breakfast and Beck rubbed her tummy. "Brekky at last!" Flitting to her side, Hope deftly rearranged Beck's cutlery. Silver-domed plates appeared, wafting the smell of toast and freshly cooked beans. Beck winked at the prince, who was still busy grappling with this gift from the blue. "Look at this!" she breathed. "Now I wouldn't be dead for quids, as we say where I come from."

*********************************************************************************************************

The water felt every bit as good as it looked, slightly salty, crystal clear, a cool contrast to the sun beating down on her back. Dressed in a tiny, tight one-piece, with high-cut sides and plunging back, Beck busted out 20 quick laps, revelling in the long-missed sensation of water flowing over her skin, the muffled splish... splash... splish of a strong, rhythmic stroke.

Rashiid, meanwhile, crouched on the pool edge under the sun, heavy breathing and running a sweat, watching, while Hope stood ringing her hands under an umbrella nearby. As much as she usually despised her master's young female guests, this one was different, and she was desperate to somehow warn pretty little white girl she was in danger. Prince Charming's half-life was only ever good for about twenty four hours, and once the thrall wore off the monster would return.

After half a dozen laps underwater, Beck broke the surface right in front of the prince and expelled water out of her nose. "My god," she panted, "that feels amazing." After all those weeks banged up indoors, just to feel the sun on her shoulders, the breeze on her skin. She held out her arm. "Look at you sitting there all hot and bothered. Why don't you come in?"

The prince backed away. He hated the water and couldn't swim anyway. "I would love to," he lied, clutching a folded white towel in front of his chinos, "but duty calls. I must retire to my office and get my work done. Then we might make the best of this evening."

Beck stuck out her bottom lip. "Naww..."

"Forgive me, Lady Rebekah. We have a saying, 'Heavy rests the head that wears the crown."

"And we have a saying. Make hay while the sun shines."

"Swim all you wish, enjoy yourself. Remember, this is your home. If you need anything... ANYthing... just tell your maid."

Rashiid turned and marched off, flinging his towel at the trembling little African on the way. Beck heard the whine of a pump, followed by a rush of effervescence, as bubble jets came to life, spaced at five-meter intervals around the sidewalls of the pool. Checking left and right, she peeled the swimsuit down to her midriff, then pulled herself along the edge to the nearest fizz of bubbles, down the deep end in 2 and a half meters of water. To Beck's surprise and delight, the gushing jets were right at crotch height. HER crotch height, perfectly positioned. Pushing up, she looked around for lurking witnesses, but it was just her and her maid, all alone on the terrace, Beck in the pool, in a palace, on a desert mountaintop. Pulling her swimmers aside, Beck took the jet full-blast in her groin, legs spread, hips jerking, toes curling and flexing.

Meanwhile, down in his office, Rashiid kicked off his pants, then slung himself into an office chair, pulled up to a work desk and called up a menu. Women were drawn to those jets like moths to a flame, and he sequenced through the underwater cameras for a glimpse of his little blonde guest. What he witnessed caused the prince to cry out in surprise and he tilted his chair, masturbating furiously, while he watched the young female pleasuring herself live on TV. In living colour, from several angles, including one directly beneath, shooting straight up.

Viewed from the pool, sunset over the mountains was breathtaking, like something out of a big budget movie. Something by Kubrick perhaps, her old man's favourite director. After a few more laps, followed by a last quick visit to Doctor Jet, Beck hauled out, a little loose in the joints from a couple of orgasms. Hope draped a thick white towel over her shoulders and together they made their way up the broad, sandstone staircase, one tier, then two, to the guest room, a huge, opulent space with the footprint of a house.

Dinner was to be served in one hour. Beck showered, then stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, stark naked, towelling herself dry as Hope bustled in. The African maid lay new silk pyjamas on the end of the bed- jet black this time, and beside them Beck's embroidered silk slippers. A tiny flash in the sky caught her eye and Beck looked around. "Hey, Hope," she beckoned, "come here a second."

The African girl stepped up and they stood, side by side, peering into the twilight sky.

"Look at that." Beck pointed. "I reckon that's a helicopter."

Hope crossed herself, then looked at Beck with big, terrified eyes.

"It is, isn't it, Hope?" Beck said. "That's a chopper."

Hope took her arm and towed her to the bed. "My Lady," she said, holding up the pyjama pants, "quickly! You must dress."

"In these?" Beck asked, steadying herself on the African's shoulder, stepping into the pants as Hope bent over in front of her. "For dinner?"

"My Lady. I fear dinner may be delayed."

With Hope still struggling to dress her, Beck went back to the window, in time to see a hulking great helicopter swoop down and circle the palace, then set up on long, steep finals to a helipad on a terrace below the pool. The nose reared high and the aircraft decelerated, sprouting landing gear, then settled on the green-painted pad in the middle of a big yellow circle. "Cooool!" Beck breathed, then on second thoughts asked, "Who is it, Hope? Is it the king?"

"Please, My Lady," Hope said, taking Beck's elbow, "you must come away from the window."

Beck pulled her arm free. "But I want to see what's happening."

Hope squeezed between Beck and the window, buttoning Beck's pyjama top with shaking hands. The helicopter's big, rear door slid open and three or 4 figures jumped out, brandishing weapons. At about the same time, Beck saw another figure appear, jogging down the stairway, gesticulating wildly. Beck grabbed Hope's shoulder and spun her around. "Is that the prince? That's the prince, isn't it?"

Hope pressed her hands together, begging. "Please, Lady Rebekah, you should not be watching. If you are seen..."

"Well turn the bloody lights off, then. Sheesh. I need to see what's going down. Look at that! Those guys are armed!"

Hope darted away and the lights went off, then she returned to Beck's side, heavy breathing. Down below, Rashiid was in the midst of a spirited conversation, stamping his foot and waving his arms. He turned to leave but had only gone a few steps when 2 of the new arrivals darted in front of him, cutting him off. "Who are they?" Beck whispered in Hope's ear, as if the men on the pad, one hundred meters away, under the pounding blades of a jet-engined helicopter, might overhear. "What are they doing?"

When Hope looked up, all Beck could see was the whites of her eyes. "That is His Majesty's personal flying machine." Hope whispered. "I gather the king has requested the pleasure of Prince Rashiid's company."

He must have indeed, Beck thought, watching the show. Histrionics on the wane, the prince resorted begging, hands clasped, pointing over his shoulder now and then, as if to say, 'I have a hot date tonight with a horny little babe. Come on fellas, I'm on a promise.' All to no avail. Shoulders slumped, like some obstinate child finally subdued, he went with the men and climbed into the back of the aircraft. A bare moment later, the magnificent red and gold anti-gravity machine rose into the air, straight up for one hundred feet, before nosing over and accelerating like an avalanche down the mountainside. Beck took a great big breath and turned her head to look for Hope. Her maid had gone.