A Captive Woman freed by a Man

When King Camut came out of his regency, he was challenged by the Baron Moulenburg, who had an indirect claim on the throne.  After two years of bloody fratricide, our king defeated the pretender and had him chained naked with a rod up as his ass to the base of the throne.  From this view, he had every member of the baron’s family brought before him one by one.  And every last one was raped and murdered by the loyal soldiers of the king.  The more sweet the poor victim was, the more attention was giving to the rape.  The blossoming ladies of the rebel’s court were pummeled backward and forward up and down and when they were near despair, their breasts and arms were hacked off and they were left bleeding on the ground to die.  The strong young warriors who captained the rebel’s armies wished they had perished on the battlefield as cock and then club made work of their ass, but the last cock was a sword, which pierced through their belly and disemboweled them.   The old wrinkly great uncle to the rebel could simply be impaled and the old grandmother simply cut down.  [censored]  The rebel’s wife was the one exception, who, despite being somewhat passed her prime, was all but raped to death. 

As much as our young king would have loved to join in the merriment, he kept his regal dignity and let his men soak themselves in semen and blood.  He did greatly enjoy the spectacle and sat fully erect.  When the pleasure of the sight became too great to bear he would discreetly give himself a little squeeze and allow himself to cum.

The killings lasted most of the day, including breaks for the men to swallow down a few eggs and regain their appetites.  And in the setting the sun, the rebel, already dead in spirit, was made to crawl, still naked and sodomized, from the palace to the city wall, the people spitting and pelting him with dung.  There he was impaled and left for the crows.

Now, I said that every member of the baron’s family was exterminated.  But this is not true.  The baron’s eldest daughter, Clymia, was spared the fate.  When the rebel’s last stronghold surrendered and she was brought out among the captives, the victorious Camut beheld her and resolved to keep her for himself.  So while the others of her clan were led to their deaths, she was led to the chambers of the king’s concubines.  And while the throne room was being soaked in blood, she was soaking in perfumes and oils. 

The girl understood that this was to be her wedding, such as it was.  Though she was not to be veiled as a bride.  Instead the women wrapped her in a wantonly thin and revealing piece of silk and had her lay upon the bed and await her master.  Baron Moulenburg indeed had raised his daughter well, and she only a vague and general notion of what to expect next.  And when our young Camut came hot and horny and from seeing her entire family destroyed, he was so eager that he simply touched her jaw as to release it and initiated her by discharging into her mouth.

He then began to shower her with kisses and caresses and when aroused again, burst through her hymen, to her soft groans.  He fucked her once more, this time taking it slowly, teaching her a few ways to return the kisses.  Satisfied and triumphant, our king then retired to the sweet sleep of utter victory.

When Clymia was led by the concubines to the highest story of their wing of the palace to be “married”, she never suspected that these two rooms would become her prison.  When the king returned to his chambers to sleep, she could not, stunned as she by those new sensations.  She laid there fingering her somewhat battered cunt and discovering how her shape had changed.  She thought of his cock, its bitter goo dripping into her salvia, his tongue against her face and her breasts.  It had sort of hurt, but wasn’t exactly unpleasant.  She rose and wrapped herself in a sheet from the bed.  She went for the door from which the king had entered and found it locked.  She went to the door through which the concubines and led her and found it locked as well.  The third door was unlocked but led to a room of shadows and musty smells.  Somewhat frightened by its darkness, she sat on the chamber pot and returned to bed.  But still sleep would not come and she lay in bed wondering what had become of her family.

When dawn finally shed light on the room, Clymia had maybe slept an hour.  In the slim light she looked around the room that had been all but a blur in her virgin excitement.  The bed was greater than even the one she had glimpsed in her parents chambers, and took up nearly half the room.  She could just as easily lie on one way or the other.  Fine silken sheets, fine enough for queen.  A thick canopy, tied up as it was summer.  The floor covered with sheepskin carpet dyed in reds and golds.  The walls painted a pale orange decked with mirrors on three sides, a fourth mirror hanging from the ceiling.  Having grown up with just the luxury of a hand mirror, these larger mirrors stared down at her, almost as if to take her soul.  The fourth wall had a window instead.  It looked out onto a small interior garden, bearing the fruits of summer.  By her bed stood two large brass candle stands, smaller ones jutted from each of the walls.  When the king took her, these had been lit.  He had blown them out before leaving and she had no flame with which to rekindle them.  The far end of the room had a fireplace, the pot, now needing to be emptied, and a small wardrobe.  She rose and found the wardrobe to be empty.  This was unfortunate, as the king in his passion had torn the silk wrap she had been given and the morning was a bit crisp.  Clymia tried the doors again.  Still locked.   Had she been at home, she would have called for a servant to at least start the fire, but in the stillness of the morning she knew nobody would answer.  Draping a sheet around her shoulders she opened the third door.

The source of the must was now evident.  The room was half full of wool.  It was completely unadorned, but it too had a fireplace to warm the bare stone.  A stool and a spinning wheel sat in the shadows by the shuttered window.  Clymia was confused.  Little did she then suspect that wheel and the later-received loom would be her only entertainment for endless days.  As she eyed this room with shivering wonder, she heard a bolt turn behind her.  She faced about, showing her naked front to the eager, ready king.

       The king approached her without speaking and pushed the sheet from her shoulders.  He held her by ample hips and backed her onto the bed.  Looking down at her slightly spread legs he threw off his dressing robe and went at it.  Taking only a few moments to refamiliarize himself with her face, breasts, and belly, he pushed his way in.  He fucked her for about an hour. After taking her two different ways, he returned to the first of the previous night, expanding from sucking the cock into licking the balls.  This she did for several minutes, to his great satisfaction, after which he opened a third chapter by bending her over, taking her like a boy.  The king then went for breakfast. Clymia, tired and sore, went to sleep. 

       She woke about midday when a short, fat, and oddly effeminate man came through the back door with a bedside table and a warm meal.  She found his eyes dark and empty and curled in the bed at his approach.  She muttered a confused thanks and only after he had gone did she realize what he was: Her eunuch.  The eunuch was to be her only other human company, save the king.  And poor company he was.  He would bring her meals, and they were always warm.  In winter and on cold mornings he would make her a fire.  When the king did finally send her clothing, he brought it.  And when she was bleeding, he gave her rags and water.  But all this he did with an air of being put to, his impersonal looks always making her eager to see him go.  

And so Clymia lived the next month in much the same fashion.  Our king would come to fuck twice or thrice a day, sometimes briefly, but sometimes for more than an hour, for he was a young man with royal appetite.  He spoke only to explain his whims, and she silently did her best to obey and please him.  She grew to increasingly like these encounters and the long hours of tense boredom between them were made tolerable by the thought that the King would no doubt soon return.  It did not bother her that she was nothing but his whore, for she had not been raised to contemplate such things.  She did desperately long for someone to speak with, her sister, her mother, a friend.  She thought of these people but never conceived of their fate.  And these tearful echoes could slip from her mind with that soothing sometimes gnashing pleasure that came from being penetrated by the king’s cock. 

       Within a month the eunuch inquired as to when she had last had her bleeding.  With such a dramatic change of circumstance, she could hardly remember, but before being married, she dared to use that word.  The eunuch understood these things and two hours later he and an old washerwoman forced the bleeding by pressing hot stone violently against her stomach.   The experience was brutal and horrible and despite her attempt at a brave face, Clymia did let out a few sharp screams.  And when the bleeding was finally induced, it was worse than ever before.  But in her ignorance, she did not know that in the blood stewed the unborn remains of her child. 

       The king did not visit her while her bleeding persisted, instead seeking his pleasure with the other concubines.  Most of these women had been bought by the regent to entertain our King Camut in his hot-blooded youth.  It was they who had made a man out of the boy, teaching him of all the royal pleasures a nobleman can desire.  But during the civil war, they saw him little, spending their time weaving and embroidering and kissing each other as to keep it moist for his return.  But when he returned, they were not sent for, and they became bitter toward the sweet young girl they had so lusciously bathed in perfume and wrapped in silk.  So when opportunity presented itself, they reminded the King so exquisitely of their art, he wondered why he had been so enthralled in repeatedly ravishing that last vestige of his annihilated enemy. 

       But when his eunuch informed him that Clymia was clean, he did return to her.  Clymia sat in the second room dolefully spinning, the clicking of the machine having let his entrance go unnoticed.  Even her melancholy face had a serene beauty, and he was reminded of the day he had seen her led out among the captives.  Completing his ambushed, he grabbed her around the waist and hurled her into to pile of wool in the back of the room.  Clymia let out a delighted little shriek.  And our Camut pushed her face deeper into the wool.  Enjoying each smooth curve of her legs he pushed up her skirts, he took her from behind.  Once finished, he flipped her over and had her tongue his genitals until we has again ready and then he took her frontwise, batting her face and breasts with pieces of wool as he did so.  She attempted to strike back, but this only found that the skilled swordsman remembered how to parry.  It was fun, but that evening King Camut returned to his concubines. 

       From that day forward, our King lost all special interest in his captive.  He did not cease to enjoy her when he did visit.  But he liked better to be surrounded by three or four of his other women, and spread his semen among their months, cunts, and asses.  He soon also took a wife from a strong and noble family and fucked her in a regular and perfunctory manner, as to assure she bore him many children.  As the summer waned, he visited her but twice or thrice a month.  And Clymia could do nothing but weave and spin.  As the winter grew on, he visited her more like once a month.  Usually when the eunuch informed him that she was again clean.   And Clymia could do nothing but weave and spin. 

       One day as the rains of March battered the palace’s stones, our king was in an especially horny mood.  His wife now several months pregnant no longer demanded any of his cum, and his newest concubine was too slight and shy for his taste.  Out of affection, he had not retired the older ones to the kitchen.  But it was getting to point where he needed to bring a new girl in every month or two to peak his interest.  Not sure where he wanted to fuck, he thought of Clymia.  He had fucked her when the eunuch had last declared her clean, and could still remember the way her breasts bobbed as he had pushed her arms between the spokes of the spinning wheel and taken her ass.  It was already evening, and Clymia was lying in bed trying to sleep, but her mind could not let her go, as caught up as it was in the deep void of despair in which it was wont to wallow.  She heard his hand upon the bolt and snapped out with excitement.  She quickly shimmied out of her night gown and threw the sheet off her naked body and cocked her head at him with a wanton smile.  The king stared at her as he slowly undressed, and stood before her completely ready.  Clymia looked him in the eye, unsure whether the king wanted her to come to him or simply waiting until the spirit moved him to pounce.  With an almost exhausted air, he sat on the bed and threw himself down beside her.  Clymia looked at him.  He was clearly waiting.  So she took him first in her mouth, and then inside her, and then in her mouth, and then inside her.  She went for it with her mouth again, but the king was already asleep.  And so she covered him in her sheets and lay down beside him.  He took her in his arms, but just slept that way.  She lay awake the whole night happy for the company, still unable to comprehend that her lover was the instrument that had caused all her misery.  In the morning, the king fucked her once more and then went about his day.

       Clymia then went to sleep, and awoke happy.  She stayed cheerful as she wove the next day. But when the king did not return that night, the darkness began to creep back into her mind.  And he did not return, and he did not return, and he did not return.  Three weeks passed and she began to feel sick.  She mentioned this to the eunuch hoping he might send for a doctor.  He looked startled and said “Well, we’ll have to get rid of it.”  Two hours later he returned with the same old washerwoman. 

       Despite her ignorance, Clymia decoded that eunuch’s words.  Upon seeing the hot stones she screamed and cried and begged them not to.  But the eunuch threw her to cold stone floor of the spinning room and pinned her legs under his knees.  The washerwomen though aged, was strong, and likewise pinned her arms.  And though Clymia writhed and screamed, the bleeding was again forced.  The operation complete, the old woman took one of stones in her right hand.

       “And here’s for all the fuss,” she said, as she beat Clymia once upon the skull.

       When Clymia awoke, she was lying upside down in the bed.  Both her head and her belly hurt horribly.  For the first time in her life, she strongly considered ending it. Her window was wide enough that she could easily toss herself out.  The door opened.  The eunuch.  His cold piercing eyes.  How she hated him.  He gave her some alimentation and saw to her wounds.  Clymia went back to sleep. 

When she awoke it was early morning.  She lay in bed till mid-morning thinking only of tossing herself from the window.  Her morning meal sat by her bedside cold and untouched.  If she could only get herself out of bed, she would go straight to that window and hurl herself out.  She pulled herself out of bed and used the pot and returned to bed.  The eunuch replaced the morning meal with the afternoon meal, saying nothing.  She nibbled a few bites of food from the bed.  Clymia beat her breasts and pulled at her hair, but ultimately fell asleep.

       She awoke in the middle of the night and did pull herself to the window.  The near-full moon shone through the clouds, casting an eerie light on the inner court.  Clymia stood a long time by the window.  How simple it would be.  Would the king miss her?  No, probably not.  He would not even miss her.  And her parents, her sisters, her brothers, didn’t they already miss her.  No, if they were alive, she was forgotten.  Useless and forbidden to even have a child.  So simple.  One quick step.  What joy would she have, if not a child?  What joy, if never a friend?  What a bloody mess it would all leave.  Maybe she should witness one more dawn.

       In the early morning light a young man entered the garden to prune the branches of the fruit trees in advance of the spring growth.  He had served six years as the apprentice to the palace gardener, and as such now performed most of the duties of his increasingly elderly and enfeebled master.  Not wanting his shirt to get tangled among the trees, he worked bare-breasted.  Rather than bother with a ladder, he had his clippers slung about his chest and would pull himself into the upper branches of the trees. 

       The sight of this fair young man distracted our Clymia from her suicide.  And she admiringly gazed upon him as he climbed up into each tree.  When the bolt turned for the morning meal, she quickly pulled herself into bed, her back to that despicable man, if you could even call him that.  The eunuch gone, she pulled her meal around to the window and watched as she ate.  She determined that if she were to live, she had to have this man.  Among her wardrobe was a thin scarf of yellow silk, meant to tie back the hair, but seldom used.  She fetched this and waited for the man to climb the tree nearest her window.

       Toward midday, our young man did climb this tree, and no gust of wind diverted that yellow bird from its intended course.  He picked the cloth from the branches where it had landed and looked up.  A face, radiant and ample, beaming down from four stories above.  He smelled the silk and kissed it and waved it back as a recognition and a promise.

       Now, the king’s concubines are guarded like the king’s treasury.  Locks and guards and the pain of death separate them from the men who would loot those jewels.   But this did not mean our young gardener was ignorant of their charms.  When the king tires of a girl, she is to stay in the palace as a servant.  And these women are often all too eager to teach a fresh young serving boy how to please them.  Beginning his service at 13 years, our gardener had quickly fallen into their snares, and there was hardly a serving woman in the palace that had not made use of him.    But the idea of this sweeter, forbidden flesh roused him up as stiff as the wood he cut, and he resolved that he would answer the summons and quickly.

       In the gardener’s shed there was a length of rope, heaven knows what for, but it had always been there.  And probably of just enough length to hoist our apprentice into the bedchamber.  The window was open.  Was this a sign she was waiting?  He tied a stone to the end and threw for it.  He missed and stone knocked against the wall.  He looked around in terror, and then up to see that he had brought the face again to the window.  He threw again and she caught the stone in her delicate little hands.  And in the moonlight he was quickly up and into the chamber. 

       The full body just as lush and beautiful as the face in the window, no even more so.  The girl wasted no time, casting her night gown onto the amazingly immense bed.  He pulled his shirt over his head and clutched her by the breasts, such shapely pointy, never-milked breasts.  She placed one had around his shoulder and slipped another into his pants, feeling the dimensions of his upright cock and skin-tight balls.  Were they greater than the king’s, he wondered with a little smile.  She fell to her knees and loosened the drawstring.  Pushing his cock deep into her throat, in a few seconds she had him pulsing out cum.  

       He pulled her up and laid her on the bed.  He gently spread her legs apart and dove his face into her cunt.  Feeling the tickles of the tongue for the first time, Clymia tried not to cry out too loudly, lest they be discovered, and limited her expression of pleasure to a soft but constant murmur.  The gardener found it salty, still musty with blood.  He had tasted blood but once before, most women shunning men during that period.  He was not repulsed and kept on pleasing her.  And as her pleasure came toward a new climax, the gardener pulled himself up and inside her, and, for the first time, they kissed.

       When they finished, the gardener spoke.

       “What a lovely lady, you are,” he said.  “Wonderful, it was wonderful.”

       Clymia did not know whether to smile or cry.  She turned away from and squirmed in the bed. 

“You will come back,” she said.

       “Keep the rope and lower it for me when I stand beneath your window.”

       The gardener did not tarry long, for every illicit minute reminded him of the impalement that could await him.  Throughout the day he thought himself wise and determined to only keep the memory of that one sweet night.  But the full moon sung to him and in the shadows he stood six stories below her window, but with a long knife in his belt.  Down the rope fell and he hoisted himself up.

       She sat naked on the bed, bathed in moonlight. The gardener took off his belt and laid down his sword.  He undressed, fucked her uncreatively, and rose to leave.  But she clung to him.

       “Don’t go,” she said.  “Nobody ever comes in at night.”

       This was a lie.  For the King would satisfy his urges at all hours.  But the eunuch was never seen after dark.

       And so the gardener stayed, cuddling and kissing until he became aroused again.  This time they took it slow, each lazily swaying, half fucking, half sleeping.  Clymia had never before had it in this manner.  It was like the massaging tongue of the night before, utterly intense and wonderful.  How different this lover was.  She let a long and perhaps overly-loud sigh.  She suddenly remembered her father, his brow furrowed, pacing.  Her mother with a light little laugh.  Why did they come to her now, so much like ghosts?  Wave after wave of pleasure rocked and soothed her.

       The gardener’s mother called out to him and he came running up the muddy ally, in between the rows of drying laundry.  She had tears in her eyes and she kissed him.  They were parting again.  Something deep inside the concubine’s cunt yanked at him and he pulsed out a few dollops of cum.

       Although the gardener was tired, he dared not sleep, lest he awake and find it morning.  He got up, used the pot and returned to bed.

       “Where am I?” He asked.

       Suddenly the girl in his arms burst into tears.

       She cried in short hiccup-like sobs.  He held her in his arms, knowing not how to comfort her for two or three minutes and then let her go.

       “What is it?” he said, a bit annoyed.

       “My boy, I cannot answer your question.”  She said, forcing herself into the calm authority of noblewoman.  “I am a prisoner here and know nothing of where I am or what will become of me.”

       The gardener’s muscles sort up tense.  He sat up in bed, thinking only of getting out.  Fucking the king’s concubine was one thing, but fucking his prisoner was quite another.

       “Is there a guard at your door?” he asked, softening his whisper.

       She laughed.  “No, they just keep it locked.”

       “Who are you then?”

       “Lick me once more like you did last night, and I will tell you.”

       And so he knelt at the foot of the bed and pulled her legs down over his face.  Clymia had seen his fear, first at being with the king’s woman, and even more so at learning she was his captive.  She need not cry; she was more powerful than he.  He just a servant.   Hmm… but what a faithful servant.  Ah… 

       Having gotten the lady to moan sufficiently, the gardener considered his duty complete.  He stood gazing at her naked body, and she at his, and then sat beside her.

       “First you tell me, what may I call you?”

       “It’s Zavier, my lady.”

       “Well Zavier, I am Lady Clymia Moulenburg.”

       And while learning that he was with the king’s prisoner had made our Zavier tense, nothing put the whites in him like the name Moulenburg.  When Camut had raped and slaughtered the Moulenburg clan at the base of the royal throne, it had been left to the male servants of the house to clean up the mess.  Zavier had picked through arms and breasts, noses, ears and eyes, thumbs and toes, pieces of penises and cunts.  Swept these all into a pile to be burned.  He had seen men still alive and groaning, their intestines spilled out before them, bleeding horribly from their asses.  And none dared crush their skulls. So they were hurled into the pile with the rest of it.  His trousers, the shirt on his back all soaked in blood, blood dripping up in arms and down his legs.  All this because of the name Moulenburg.

       Zavier’s stomach turned remembering.  He curled into the bed.  He looked up, she was gazing down at him.

       “You know the name,” she said.

       He nodded.

       “My parents…”

       “They are dead.”

       “My family…”

       “All of them dead.”

       “Don’t worry.  I won’t cry anymore.  It’s better knowing.”

       They lay together in silence for the better part of an hour.  Zavier had figured it out.

       “When he tires of you, the king will kill you too,” he said at length. 

       “If that is so,” she said, “then my days are few, for I fear he has tired of me already.”

       “I will help you escape,” he said.

       “Why?”

       “Cause you’re the loveliest lady I’ve ever known, and the king’s a monster for what he’s done.”

       “You know I’m not strong enough to climb that rope as you do.”

       Zavier nodded.  “How do they get your meals to you?” he asked.

       “There’s a man, well not exactly a man, but he brings them to me.”

       “And he unlocks the door?”

       “Of yes, of course he unlocks the door, and you could easily overpower him.  He’s old and fat and absolutely vile!”

       She took Zavier in her arms and began to kiss him up and down his body, until the blood again rushed to she intended to focus on.

       “It is enough,” he said.  “I’m sore already.”

       She looked up at him and contented herself with a kiss on the lips.

       “I will learn how we can escape once we are through that door. I swear to you lady, I will return.”  And Zavier let himself out through the window.

       Zavier did have one true friend among the palace servants.  An old woman who had been a concubine to Camut’s grandfather.  He was the only one who could get her off anymore and she thanked him for it in every way that she could.  She was an old bitch, but passionate, and he felt he could trust her, even to be an accomplice to treason. 

       So the next evening, Zavier licked the old woman in just the right way.  Then he told her everything.  And so she detailed the exact lay out of the concubine’s quarters, such as it was in her time, and how one might hide and exit, or enter, undetected. 

       And so the next night, Zavier returned to Clymia, carrying two cloaks around his shoulders and two knives under his belt.  The lady was already naked, hot and thirsty for her savior’s cum.  She took the lad, trembling as he was, pulled down the trousers and sucked him off exquisitely as she held his ass.  He didn’t keep going, but pulled up his pants, lying fully dressed in the bed, still tense.  She stroked his head and licked his ear, but let him lay in silence.  And silence was good, for what should they hear but the bolt turning in the King’s door!

       Zavier was spry and dove between the bed and the wall. Clymia stood and rushed to help the king out of his night robe.  He took her backwards in his arms, squeezed her breasts and pushed her over the end of the bed to examine her ass.  But something seemed wrong.  He saw the rope out of the corner of his eye, there it was lying by the window.  Zavier saw him see it, and reared up, holding his long knife toward his sovereign’s breast.

       “Don’t be silly, my boy,” our king said, granting his gardener’s man a slight smile.

       “Oh, yeah,” Zavier whispered.  “A man who’s here is pierced through the belly.  How much worse could it be?”

       But the King saw his moonlit eyes that he did not mean murder.  With his fast warrior’s hands, he struck the gardener’s arms and the sword dropped.  He lunged to pin the man against the wall.  But the gardener dove out and on the bed. Clymia rushed toward the king, not knowing anything, but one blow sent her reeling.  Yet this gave Zavier enough time to grab a lampstand and swing it at the king’s chest.  The king staggered backwards and Zavier pounced, pinning him to the ground. 

       “Quick, my lady the rope!”  And with their combined might, the king was bound hand to foot.

       The king looked at Zavier, not even knowing how to demean the worthless wretch.  And Zavier looked at him.  His arms and legs bound backward, our king still had a beautiful form, having gained only a little fat since the peace. Zavier picked his sovereign up and laid him sideways on the bed.  Zavier took off his shirt, lay beside him backwards and took the king’s cock into his mouth.   Zavier took his time, savoring every lick of the recalcitrant penis.  Eventually, the king swallowed his anger and allowed himself to cum.  Zavier kept the cum on his tongue and gestured for Clymia to come to him.  He pulled open her legs and pressed his tongue as far in as he could manage.

       “This is the last time your seed enters Lady Moulenburg, my lord,” Zavier said.

       “Good job, my boy, well done,” The king answered with smirk.

       “You liked that, my lord?”

       “Yeah, your mouth is able.”

       “If your majesty likes, you can watch me do the same for Lady Moulenburg.”

       “Go ahead.”

The king had watched his girls lick each other, but never before seen a man do it.  And so Zavier laid his lady’s legs beside the king and propped the king’s head on her belly so he could watch every detail, and licked her off with exquisite precision, her belly rocking our king’s head as she groaned.

       “Nicely done, my boy, nicely done.”

       “Now, I will fuck her, if your majesty doesn’t mind.”

       “Yes, by all means, fuck her.”

       “How does your majesty want it done?”

       “Standing and up the ass.”

       “Very good.”

       And so Zavier did the deed requested, taking only a minute, for his was quite ready.

       Zavier turned back to his king and saw that his prick up.

       “Want some more?”

       “Yes. Give it to me, my boy.”

       “Then, I will try your other side, your majesty.”

       So Zavier untied the king’s legs and spent twenty minutes licking the king’s ass, gentle massaging balls, shaft and tip with his calloused worker’s hands.  He caught the cum again.

       “Maybe I lied,” he said.  “My lady, lick my hand.”

       Clymia licked up eagerly, with thrill and delight.  She had loved watching her gardener do her lord like that, loved every minute of it.  And so much more so because every lick and caress was tinged with the pain of death.

       All three of them naked in the moonlit bed, the king now sitting up, as his legs were unbound, the two criminals on each side.

       “I still can’t pardon you, you know,” Camut said.

       “Well, that may be,” Zavier nodded.  “But I’ll offer your majesty this pact:  I’ll tell no one of how I treated you and your majesty shan’t send armed men to pursue me.  This way, I’ll have my life and you’ll have your honor.”

       “And who will have the girl?”

       “I will.”

       “That is difficult, the girl must die,” the king pronounced.

       “Is that really so?” Zavier said, reaching for his long knife.  Clymia’s jaw dropped in horror, but the blade did not lunge for her breast.

       “I could still do the deed,” Zavier said.  “If she must die, then you must too, your majesty.”

       “Oh, very well.  Take the girl.  But if we hear the faintest rumor of our name besmirched, we will hunt you to the ends of the earth.  Is that clear?”

       “Quite clear, your majesty. I apologized, I must bind you again.  The eunuch will come in the morning.”

       And so, Zavier bound the king’s legs.  The king’s keys still sat in the lock.  Zavier and Clymia dressed and slipped off into the concubine’s quarters. 

       In the morning the king thanked his old servant by strangling him to death.

       Zavier kept his word until Camut’s death.  But in the reign of his son, he let his tongue loosen.  And that is how I have now given you the story.