Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 08

Elbows on knees, once more on the edge of his throne, the king looked at Short Round, wide eyed. "It has?"

Fat Cleric looked on, slack-jawed, while Reverend Rake stood blinking, thinking this was the awesomest divination he could ever half-recall.

Short Round dipped his head. "Indeed, Sire. They call it 'quantum mechanics."

So that's what it meant? There were nods all around, a mystery revealed.

"Whatever we see in the cistern, tomorrow, your own view will ten times ten, times ten, times ten thousand times the purview. You will see the future, and in it, exactly what you desire. My Liege, congratulations. Tomorrow you may wed."

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At the same time, in her chambers next door, Beck lay on her tummy in the middle of the huge empress bed, dressed in skimpy knickers and a pink silk singlet, propped up on her elbows watching a contraband iPad. To her left lay Hope, the skinny black maid from Rashiid's fortress, while Floraliza lay prone on her right, both in their civvies- t-shirts and active-wear. They were busy watching 'Ice Age', totally engrossed.

"This is unbelievable," Hope suddenly said in quiet amazement.

Beck flicked her a glance. "Cool movie, huh? Hey! Cool! Get it? Ice Age."

"Truly amazing." Hope nodded. "How did they teach these animals to speak?"

"What do you mean?" Floraliza frowned.

"These animals. See? They can talk."

"It's a cartoon, Hope." Floraliza said dryly. "Voice make by actor."

"But I can see their mouths moving. And hear the sound."

Floraliza looked at Beck. "My Lady? Can you tell her?"

"Lizzy's right," Beck sighed. "It's just a cartoon. Though wouldn't it be awesome?"

"See, Hope, they're not really real. They're just drawings."

"And yet they move." Hope said shrewdly. "I can see them with my own eyes. I'm not stupid. It would be harder to make a drawing move than teach animals to speak."

"Jesus Murphy!" Beck cursed. "You've never seen Bugs Bunny?"

"Who is this man?" Hope asked.

"Bugs?" Beck frowned. "He's a great sage and philosopher. A kind soul, a fearless soul... scourge of the wabbit hunters and protector of the weak... And he has a friend. A little black duck named Daffy. He... they... look... it doesn't matter. Have you ever seen Frozen?"

"I love that movie." Floraliza said wistfully. "When I was a girl."

Beck rolled her eyes. "Mmmm... Princess Elsa. Lizzy. Remind me. When I'm queen. Let's invite her to lunch."

"I do believe I know what you want on the menu." Floraliza said, and they both fell apart snorting and snickering.

"What is this?" Hope said. "What is this 'Frozen?"

"Another cartoon."

"Where the animals talk?"

"They ALWAYS talk in cartoons." Beck said. "Even the trees do."

Hope shook her head. "This is amazing. And if I come to the West? Where animals can speak? I can talk to one?"

"Sure," Beck blithely said, "I'll hook you up with a mate of mine. He's a kangaroo."

Hope pulled back to give Beck the eye. "Are you serious?"

"Why not?"

"And I can talk to your friend?"

"Sure. Why not? We can all meet up for coffee."

"Coffee? With an animal?"

"Yes!" Beck said testily. "Though he usually just has a hot chocolate. Too much caffeine makes him jumpy. Now shut up and watch the movie."

"And I can ask him?" Hope pressed, "All of the animal world's secrets?"

"Like what they think of us humans." Floraliza said under her breath.

"Not too frikken' much." Beck replied.

"Is this true?" Hope asked.

Beck palmed her forehead. "No, Hope! It's a fff... flippin' cartoon!"

"We should show her 'Finding Nemo'." Floraliza piped.

"Right," Beck sniffed, "talking fish! Let's really blow her cotton-pickin' mind."

"Talking fish?" Hope reared back in surprise, "No!"

"Grrr!" Beck growled and fell face-first into the mattress. "Yes! Exactly! No!"

A door on the far side of the hangar-sized chamber opened and Beck felt the two young women stiffen. Looking over her shoulder as they both rolled away, she saw the familiar form of the bride-wrangler in chief, Doctor Inayat, rear up over her horizon. Sweeping into the chambers in a in a swirl of white coat, head swathed in a burgundy hijab, she looked the two glorified slaves up and down with an expression that could have moonlighted as paint-stripper. The instant the ink was dry on His Majesty's marriage certificate, this pair would be in prison so quick it would make their empty heads spin.

Beck shot her a glare. "Would you stop eying them off like that? You're scaring them. It looks like you're sizing them up for dinner."

"These gutter-sluts are hardly worthy of cleaning the toilets." Inayat hissed, "Let alone lying with His Majesty's betrothed."

Beck pushed her chest out, her little conical tits menacing the doctor. "Well, that's my responsibility, isn't it? I'm warning you. The second the deed is done, as soon as I'm His Majesty's wife, you will bow down before me in front of my friends... I mean my Ladies in Waiting."

Undeterred, Doctor Inayat treated Beck to a look of scathing disdain. "I see the hours of instruction have been all in vain. It may well be that you're simply beyond educating. I trust His Majesty will enjoy the challenge of bringing you to heel."

"Talking up a big game, Inny." Beck retorted. "Can't wait to see you on your knees in front of me."

"Whatever our differences," Inayat said, hedging her bets, "your welfare is my only concern. I do this for my King. But Lady Rebekah, heed my words. Should you harm a hair on His Majesty's head. Should you offend him..." Then they'd all get to see the little slut swing. Not in the fun way either, at the royal ball, but by the neck with her cursed maids.

"Consider them heeded." Beck said with a dismissive wave. "Now what do you want? We were busy watching a wildlife documentary, weren't we girls?"

Visibly trembling, Hope averted her eyes while Floraliza stood, staring vacantly at her feet. As much as they loved the quirky little Westerner, adored her in fact, Her Ladyship had no inkling of the retribution they faced, she and Hope, once the blonde's protective mantle was torn away.

"My Lady," Inayat bowed, "His Majesty bids you, prepare."

"Prepare? What for?"

"For the taking of your oath." Inayat said. "Your marriage."

"Marriage?" Beck frowned, "That's still a few days away. Isn't it? At least according to old Mister Moon."

Inayat shook her head, delighting in Beck's consternation. "No," she smiled, "the ceremony is nigh. On the morrow, when the moon shines his face on the sacred pool."

"Nuh uhh..." Beck shook her head. "That's two days too early."

"It will happen when His Majesty commands." Inayat growled. "From this moment on you must fast. You must purge yourself with the enema I provide, then I shall examine you."

"Examine me? What for?"

"To confirm your purity."

"But... you've been watching me day and night, Inayat. Night especially. There's no need to examine me."

"There is, and I will do so. This is the protocol. You would have known all this if you were able to read."

"Oh, I can read alright, Inny. And you can stick your protocol where the sun don't shine. You're not molesting me again you dirty old pervert. You do and I'll tell my hubby."

"Then he will be most delighted to hear that I have done my duty." Inayat smiled. Beck looked around as a pair of local women came in, the usual heifers, in dark blue medical uniforms and the standard issue hijabs. One carried a large brown bottle, the other a tube. "Here is your enema. You can do it yourself, or I will have my nurses do it for you."

Arms crossed, Beck shook her head. "Tell 'em to jam it up their own cloacas. Half each."

Inayat reached into the breast pocket of her white coat. "I was almost hoping you would say that." she smiled, brandishing a ten-mil syringe with the standard-issue orange-capped needle. "Nothing would please me more than to do it the hard way."

Hands over her mouth, Hope let out a wail. "My Lady Rebekah! No!"

Inayat jerked her head at a nurse. "Get this pair of sewer rats out of here!"

"NO!" Beck barked, stopping the fat young woman in her tracks. "Okay, Inayat, give me that bottle. You two!" she jerked her chin at the two fat nurses, "Get the fuck out of my chambers, or I'll have you washing bedpans at a village clinic for the next twenty years. Floraliza? Hope? Please get dressed in your uniforms, and once this farcical cleansing has been done, you will bear witness to the Doctor's inspection."

"That won't be necessary." Inayat began, "They-"

Beck levelled a finger in the doctor's face. "I'm ordering them," she snarled, "and I'm ordering you. I am His Majesty's property. I am Lady Rebekah, Royal Bride of His Majesty the King. Should anything... anything... happen to me... I want him to be the first to know."

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As Watson drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, his arms wrapped around a warm, vibrant body, two doors away in the ivory merchant's apartment, its resident VVIP paced the floor, stark naked, pausing now and then to peer through the sliding glass door. Into the courtyard, and the pool beyond, where the little round-eye spitfire was currently kicking back, lounging on a pool chair, ignoring him, a line of pebbles in the door track jamming it shut.

Zhang Jingli fisted his palm. He'd hurried back from the cancelled feast overflowing with anticipation, only to find her outside, inaccessible and impervious to his pleas. Every now and then he rapped on the glass, pointing to his phone, and the photos he so desperately wanted her to see. All he got for his trouble was a raised arm and extended middle finger. If she would only look, he was sure, she would realise they were made for each other.

Tired, bored and frustrated, Zhang settled down to watch some TV, a Chinese language documentary on the making of modern Ab Aldafra, its stunning transformation, from sweeping desert wilderness trammelled by nomads, to a sleepy fishing village by the sea, to an advanced, glittering metropolis, showcasing the latest in cutting-edge technology, powered by trillions of dollars of oil buried under land and sea. The locals might have paid for it, Zhang thought wryly, but armies of expatriates had made the dream come true, using legions of slaves to bring the foreign design to fruition.

In the wee, small hours, as he knew he would, Zhang heard a change in the ambient soundscape. The waterfall was suddenly louder, and he roused himself to find Ally at the open door. She'd stripped the canopy and stays from a table-mounted parasol, and fashioned a spear, which she now held level with his pounding heart. "Don't... fucking... move!" she said. "I gotta use the loo. No funny business, right, or you're shish kebab."

Zhang leapt to his feet, searching desperately for his phone. He'd left the damned thing on the nightstand, but as soon as he went to move, Ally jammed the point of her jury-rigged skewer in the middle of Zhang's chest. With her feather weight behind it, she barged the naked male into a corner, the point digging deep into his sternum almost breaking the skin. His dreams had finally come true, Zhang thought, gripping the spear, intending to reposition the tip to his ball sac.

"I SAID DON'T MOVE!" Ally raged, fighting Zhang for the pole. After a brief, spirited tussle, she heard a voice from the distant past saying, 'Fight the man, not the stick!' Going with him, she twisted at the hip, kicking him so hard in the knee his kneecap dislocated. Zhang's leg buckled and down he went, searing gouts of pain rending his flesh, as the dislocated kneecap popped back into place. Not quite the busted balls he was hoping for, but it would do. Ally jammed the spear in his temple and gave it a shove. "What's it gonna TAKE, you fuckin' moron? Keep your fuckin' hands off me. Get it? Just leave me the fuck alone and I won't cut your balls off!"

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On his knees behind Cassandra, halfway through the morning's session of therapeutic fucking, Watson heard a knock at the door. Pulling up, balls deep in Cassandra's vice like clutches, he looked over his shoulder as the door opened a crack and Ali looked in. "Excellency," he said, not batting an eyelid- the thought of putting any part of his body in that young harlot did nothing for him- "I bid you good day."

Watson grit his teeth. He was so close to cumming his cock was already twitching, like an elephant working up to a monumental sneeze. "Jesus Christ!" he grated, "Ali! Your timing is... fuck... king... im... peccable."

"I bring greetings from His Majesty the king." Ali blithely announced. "He would have you attend his chambers at your earliest convenience."

Cassandra looked over her shoulder at the startled old man. She could feel his cock pulsating on the brink of going off. Sucking her belly in, she tightened her muscles around the thick tube of deeply buried meat, and commenced gyrating her hips, drawing tight little circles with her ass. Watson dug his fingers into her firm, goose-bumped butt, but when he tried to withdraw, Cassandra went with him, pushing back so hard that Watson was sure he was about to pop out of her mouth. "When..." he huffed, as his balls began to clench, "... does he..."

"If I might enter." Ali said and let himself in, walking straight past the copulating couple to the wardrobe. "I will choose some clothes for Your Lordship."

Hips grinding, muscles trembling, the old man hosed his load deep into Cassandra's insides, filling her up to capacity, a thick gout of overflow drenching his scrotum. She squeaked in delight, butt bouncing up and down as she reached between her legs to feather her clit. "As always," Ali said coolly, over the sound of squealing and grunting, "I must ask you to ablute, and abstain from carnal contact with any female."

Watson gave a quick thumb's up. "Copy."

"And please refrain from taking dairy or alcohol, Excellency. Purity of mind and body. Vital if you are to meet His Majesty the king."

When the ructions died down, Watson inched backwards out of Cassandra's tiny, tight vagina. When he popped free, in a spurting blurt of coagulated cum, Cassandra fell face-first onto the bed, chest bellowing, ribs leaping under her sweat-streaming skin. A puddle quickly collected in the hollow of her spine, at the small of her back, where the old man's cock had been lodged for much of the fuck. Dipping his head, Watson hoovered up the sweet, salty mouthful then gave her butt-cheek a squeeze. "Okay there, Cassie?"

Cassandra raised a hand then let it flop onto the mattress, legs spread, pussy agape, slowly gulping cum. Beside him, Ali carefully arranged the old man's clothes on the bed, Linen shirt and silk pantaloons, and a set of elaborate robes, jet black, trimmed with gold, more like a hooded cape than simple dishdasha. Wedding clothes if he wasn't mistaken. He pointed. "Those are the ritual robes, Ali. For the wedding."

Ali nodded. "That is correct."

"In two days' time."

"Right again, Excellency."

"Then what are you doing?"

'Exactly what I'm told.' Ali thought. As per the briefing. By the head of the secret police. "My instructions were to make your robes ready. To purify them under the sky."

"Under the sky?"

Ali gestured outside with his chin, at the open courtyard with its plunge pool and waterfall. As he did, Cassandra rolled onto her back and struggled upright, then sat, bleary-eyed and slightly dishevelled from the morning's marathon. "Why are you putting his robes out, Ali?" she asked, stretching. "Wedding's not for a couple of days.

Ali grit his teeth behind the smile. Bad enough he had to serve this old bleacher, as civil as he might be. But having to speak politely to the debauched young harlot assigned to him. "It's all routine, Miss Cassandra. Please. Do not concern yourself. Excellency?"

"His Majesty wants me? Now?"

Ali dipped his head. "As soon as you are able to ablute."

Cassandra slung her feet off the bed and stood, runnels of the old man's cum from crotch to knee. "The King." she said, wonder-struck. "What I wouldn't give."

"What does His Majesty want with me this time?" Watson asked, realising even as he spoke he was wasting his time.

"I am but a lowly steward," Ali said, omitting he was also an undercover operative, "I simply obey my instructions."

"How should I prepare?" Watson blinked, his scalp prickling with sweat in spite of the aircon. Bad enough to be on the island in the first place, without being under the royal microscope. "I mean, if I had some idea of what was required."

"It's just a friendly chat, I believe." Ali said breezily. "Here. I have arranged your clothes- brand new silks, a brand new tunic. Your boots have been sanitised as well."

"No time for breakfast?" Watson asked wanly, stalling for all he was worth. Hoping for a miracle maybe, like some intervening matter of state to get in the way.

"I'm sorry, Excellency, no. You must ablute. And you must not partake of alcohol or dairy." Ali shot a glance at the naked young woman, standing in front of the mirror brushing her hair. "And it is most important. You must abstain from any carnal relations of any kind. I must warn you, banish such thoughts. There. Your clothes are ready. Now please, Sir, it is time to ablute. Perhaps I might assist you?"

"Thanks Ali," Watson raised a hand, "I'm sure Miss Cassandra can cope. Cassie?"

"Me?" Cassandra pointed at herself. "I'd love to."

Ali paused, then looked from one to the other and dipped his head. "As you wish, Excellency. But please, I implore you. No-"

"-hanky panky. Thanks, Ali. I got it."

Watson emerged from his apartment suitably dressed- an embroidered waist coat over oatmeal linen tunic, the calf-length boots with their up-turned toes, and, just for something different, scarlet and yellow silk pantaloons. As he stepped into the hall a door opened 2 apartments away and, lo and behold, right on cue, his neighbour, the persistent and punctual Zhang Jingli stepped into the hall. Black eye, swollen ear, cigarette dangling from a split lip. Like a little snippet of film on a permanent loop, always the same, he nodded a greeting, and while Watson cleared the path, Zhang limped past, bound for lunch, like walking-wounded.

The ever-dutiful Ali walked Watson down a few flights of stairs, then outside, where the mid-morning heat was already poised to heap its mass on the old man's frame. No stranger to the tropics, Watson had always thought himself fairly well acclimatised to harsh conditions. Until now. The heat in this part of the world was a physical entity. A burden, a weight, a load that bent the back and stooped the shoulders. An escort was waiting, 6 household guards in ceremonial dress with traditional Bushmaster rifles, waiting on the broad, sandstone landing, 2 levels below the swimming pool terrace. As Ali took his leave, the escort formed up around him, and set off as one, ascending the long, narrow stairway on the western edge of the palace.

It was a long climb with several stops to let the old man catch his breath. Not that he needed it half as much as the sweating troops. They could have used one of many palace elevators, or ascended level-by-level inside, where the temperature was a constant 18 degrees. But no. The whole exercise was designed to keep him out of the public eye, for whatever reason the king may have deemed necessary. To avoid igniting petty jealousy, truth be known, conversation with the king being the greatest of honours. For those who gave a flying horse about such things.