He sits amid the summer revelry, the commerce and enterprise of young women and their paying swains taking place on all sides, but his only companionship has been the everful tankards of frothy clove beer, darker than Guinness and packing twice the punch. He's not quite knee-deep in the drink. A good thing, for the night's not half done.
The Pink Tulip grows in the middle of the red light district. A lovely little place, somewhat on the quieter side than the others. One of the smallest of the brothels, its ladies are housed in a four-story rowhouse. Its cramped confines are made only the more confining by the crowding of chairs and sofas and tables downstairs for the gentlemen waiting (or resting between trollops), and the cloth wallpaper and rugs. Every surface is covered with something. The wallpaper is strips of pink and red silk ribbons, the furniture is all over-stuffed Victorian.
Yes, it is a Victorian Fairy Book Brothel.
In the midst of this Victorian picturebook sits a modern dressed, twenty-first century hooligan king in a square-cut leather coat, beaded with the moisture of his travel, moisture that has not dried. His fiery copper hair is shorn short, the curls tamed by it. His high cheekbones are covered in a wash of light red, the blush that comes after several tankards of frothy clove beer.
Davydd sits at a circular table, hunched over as he tosses a few coins onto the surface of the table. A couple of 'johns' sit with him -- one waiting for his favorite trollop, Poppy (a lovely spring-curled corset-wearing girl), and the other resting from his last adventure with Iris (a dark haired beauty with the tiniest waist in the kingdom, famous for her hourglass figure). He's a pwca. It takes more than one round to make him happy.
Davydd sits back with a cloven exhale, dragging his cards along the surface of the table, bending the edges to look at them again as he places his last bet. Men have come and gone, and still he has not gone upstairs with any of the lovely corseted Victoria wing-bearing fairy girls.
Note the restraint...
A fucking miracle after five lonely nights...
And here is another girl coming down, hair long and the colour of newly minted gold. It's worn down in loose waves, as if it's just been washed not long ago and hasn't quite finished drying yet. Her eyes are as blue as summer skies, and her smile is pink, showing no traces of having been painted on. She wears no corset, though; instead, she wears a thin silk peignoir the colour of cinnamon, hinting at the curves and shadows beneath the material. Slits have been cut in the back for her wings - gauzy things that flutter as she moves, looking as if they might snap off altogether if she were too careless. She stands out here because she looks so unprepared; as if she's on her way from or to a roll in the hay, but without anything in her mind. She looks, simply, happy.
And, perhaps, somehow - familiar...
"Nutmeg," one of the other girls calls, climbing to her feet and scampering over to here. There's a brief, intensely whispered conversation and Nutmeg nods at the end of it, and the other girl runs back to her client, dragging him by the hand up the stairs. Nutmeg watches them go, then laughs, a joyous peal of laughter that's infectious enough that one of the girls remaining giggles as well. And then she resumes her casual meander throughout the room.
She reaches your table, High King, and she looks at you, eyebrows perking up for a moment; and then she looks to the others in their turn. When she speaks, it's without artifice, without coyness, just a mellow, pleasing contralto. "Good evening, gentlemen," she begins, hands folded behind her back, wings wavering as if on the air. "I hope you're finding everything to your liking. Anything that you need? If so - let me know, and I'll see what I can do, right?" One eye closes in a playful wink.
No woman has been able to charm the high king out of his chair, nor has any one been able to nudge him out of his gloomy disposition. He's gambled, he's had beer, he's even smoked a bit. But he's touched no lady.
No, how...
And he's completely miserable with it...
The other two toss in their cards, giving up at the High King's last bet -- and one is more interested in the bit of skirt going up the stairs. "Pardon," he says to the king, rising and bowing, and then grabbing a passing winged girl as she flitters by. Giggling, she pulls him upstairs likewise.
With a cross-wise grin, the pwca grabs his last bit of winnings, nodding to his majesty as he clears the Lonely Table and heads for the stairs. He adjusts his groin as he goes.
Davydd tosses the cards face up on the table. Queens high. Yeah, I know a queen who's high right now. I bet she is, high hanging from the rafters doing some page out of the bleeding Kama Sutra. India. Bah.
Dragging a hand through what's left of his hair after his latest butchering (he looks very Saville Row, mind you), the High King looks at Nutmeg, smirking at the now empty chairs. "The beer's quite good and I'm winning money. I suppose I've nothing to complain about." He pauses, giving her a second look. Lastly along her long, delicate dragonfly-like wings. "Nutmeg, is it," he repeats, not really asking.
Suddenly he's rising and offering you his hand. "I think I could use a break from the pink. Mind letting me hide behind cinnamon curtains a while?"
"Cinnamon curtains, your majesty?" Nutmeg laughs; it's a laugh, not a giggle, but she nods acquiescence, offering you a smile that seems to have a boundless tolerance for all the things the world might throw at her as well as genuine warmth. "My room is upstairs, but you're quite clever, you see. My curtains do match my clothes. They're made of the same cloth."
Just as she is made of the same essence as someone else? But she doesn't say that; nor does she hint it. Your hand is taken by her smaller, daintier one, a fingertip running lightly along the edge of your finger before she allows her own fingers to curl around yours. "Come on upstairs," she suggests. "I know a hiding place. I like hiding places."
You receive that pink smile, and she turns, retaining her hold on your hand. The girls remaining downstairs look green with envy. How did she snag the High King's attention? Unheard of! But Nutmeg seems oblivious to their jealousy; oblivious, in fact, to everything except placing one foot in front of the other with that backwards glance to you.
"Everyone's got things to complain about, though, o king of kings," Nutmeg tells you lightly, no mockery in her voice. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't, now would you? This way, and mind your head - I don't believe they were thinking of you when they built this place! You'll have to write in and complain." The door of a room is nudged open, and she steps in, making way for you to follow, blue eyes kept on you as she smiles.
There is a bed. It's a little on the small side; big enough, but she must be new here, to have one of the smaller rooms. The walls are painted a pale shade of blue, and the bed is hung with cinnamon silks, as is the one window. She strokes fingers along a gold-brocaded lampshade, and the lamp turns on. "Is there anything I can get for you, your majesty? Would you like a hand with your boots?"
It's like walking in a dollhouse. His shoulders are too broad, he's too tall -- not the case on the material realm...he's not as much a giant there -- and the stairway is narrow like all Victorian staircases should be. So he has to all but rub and writhe his way upstairs -- as if he's trying to fit into a jacket two sizes too small.
He's thankful for the privacy. He closes the door behind him. He locks it not with the fastenings of the door but with a tangle of ivy and thorn that suddenly appear there. Just in case any of your "sisters" think to get wise. Davydd rolls out of his jacket, his hands removing cigarettes and lighter and then he tosses the leather onto the small chair. You must use that to pull on your sheer hosiery. Beneath that jacket is a short-sleeved cotton shirt, also black. Biceps are revealed and on his left arm, a war of dragons and holly.
The High King crosses to the bed, slowly lowering himself onto it. His eyebrows arch skyward as he does, half wondering if it will sustain his weight. "I could use a hand or two, oes. Your...sisters are none too pleased, Nutmeg, that I've chosen you. But... if I close my eyes and listen to your voice, you sound... a lot like my much-missed queen."
You aren't the first prostitute (nor shall you be the last) who will be the stand-in for a wife. For men who are parted from their loves by life and circumstance, a professional girl becomes a wife. Now... you've become a queen. The bed shift beneath him and Davydd lies back, his long legs hanging over the edge of the bed.
"They aren't. I'm not as popular as some; I'm too honest for it. But this is the way I was made, and I figure, I can either be unhappy and trying to be someone and something else, or I can be happy, and be who and what I'm meant to be." Nutmeg smiles at you, moving to the bed and sinking next to it. "I learned that from my mother."
Nimble fingers make quick work of the laces of your boots, and then she's rocking back and forth, working first one boot off, then the other. She almost falls back, and she laughs, righting herself as she rolls off your socks and begins to massage one of your feet. "You're handsome, but even if you were ugly as sin, they'd still want you, your majesty. You're a king, and to them, well - any girl who sleeps with you will have her reputation made. You know that, don't you?"
Those nimble fingers are now pressing in, rubbing at your skin, digging into reflex points with a perhaps unChristian glee. "Now ... I won't pretend it won't bring coin to my pocket. And to my purse," Nutmeg laughs unrestrainedly, delighting in the wordplay. "But I wouldn't be jealous if you'd picked another girl. Even if you've picked me because of your queen. I'm here to serve you, so whatever you want, that's my task, isn't it? But I can't be more than a little bit like her, you know. She can fight with you. All I'll do is smile and bob my head. There, how's that?" Your feet are released, and she pulls herself upright, unhurried in her movements as she leans over you on the bed. "A drink, your majesty? Or something else?"
When your hands went to his feet, his boots dropping to the floor, the king closed his eyes. They pop open as you speak about your "sisters" and his mouth slants a smile. "Hmmm...oes...that I realize. Where the king goes, the coins follow. That's the way it works."
His hand pats the surface of the bed. Join me here. "Just come to me, yeah. I just need to hold a lovely little woman for a while. I get moody," he grins, the edges of sharp teeth visible in that grin, "...when I'm forced into celibacy. It's not in my nature."
Will you smell like her too? If you do, I don't know how ruddy celibate I can be.
"You don't even need to sleep with me to have your reputation made," he chuckles. "Whatever else, the rumor's already started. It's running wild through this house. Soon, there will be dainty little faces pasted to the door as if they could feel the alleged heat between us through the oak."
His arm comes wide, his left arm -- that of the king's marks, bearing dragons and holly from wrist past the sleeves. His arms are strong, stretching the cotton of the shirt to its fullest expression at the biceps. Davydd chuckles, a throat-held sound. "Hmm... you can't argue with me either... not so long as I pay you. Right?" He laughs.
She does not smell like Fiona. She does not smell like anything human. There is the scent of truffles - rich and loamy, and overlaid, the scent from which she must get her name : nutmeg. There is nothing of apples about her, nor of the sea...
She joins you on the bed lightly, wings fluttering, a hand lifting to touch your face. "I enjoy money," Nutmeg admits to you without artifice. "I like nice things. What girl doesn't, at heart? I like attention - girls like that, too. It's probably why I continue to work here, night after night. And," she smiles at you, touching your nose with her fingertip, "it is a job as well as pleasure, your majesty. But I like, no, love, my work."
And she winks at you again, curling up neatly against you, half-sitting up with one elbow propped. "They're listening already, I'm sure. Oh, well - that's their problem, not mine. I am here for you, not for them." Another wink, and her hand slides from your cheek down along one arm, gaze admiring. "You must be very strong, your majesty. And oh, don't pay me and you'll see the transformation every woman can make - from amiable armful to a horrible shrew in the blink of an eye!"
And Nutmeg laughs again, the sound dwindling to a contented little sigh, and she looks at you. "Why don't you tell me what you're here for?", she suggests, smile still wide. "How can I make you happy, your majesty, or lend you some of mine?"
You don't smell like her. You have her voice but not much else. Just... another nice girl. The world is crowded with nice girls. My bed has been crowded with nice girls over the years. Well, and not so nice girls. Really wretched girls, actually. Naughty, naughty princesses, queens, countesses, duchesses and laundry maids.
As you come up against him, settling in, the High King rolls over and scoops you into his arms. Strong? He has that in spades. Dark blue, royal blue and cobalt blue dragons surround you, coiling even as his arms coil. "I'm here for this," he whispers at your ear. "Have you not been paid simply for companionship? To lie in bed with a man and speak with him so his longing heart has some satisfaction? Or do you only get the rubes in," he gruffs, pawing at you, gnawing at you, grunting and tossing coins?"
It has been five nights. Five... long...cold... nights. Despite the fact it's summer. The thin cinnamon gown that covers your body is no match for his own grasp. "How much do you charge kings for conversation? I suppose I should ask for the menu first before ordering a dish, oes?"
Would it be cheating if I just ... ate her...? And why the fuck am I even worried about it? Aren't I the one left behind while my woman is off around the globe making love to another man in rose littered pools? He's probably licking honeydust off her breasts right now...
The High King smiles against your ear, his hands starting to wander. "How much to simply make a meal of you, or do you let men pleasure you at no charge?" Arms still around you, his lifts up with the strength of his core, his torso. One arm slides away from you, toying with the cinnamon fabric that covers you. "Do you ever take nights for yourself, Nutmeg?"
"There are nights when I have," Nutmeg allows, a hand lifting to tweak at your hair playfully. "One man was so lonely for his lady that he spent the night with his head pillowed on my breasts. He didn't want anything else, he said; just to pretend she was near, and warm."
Is she nice? She seems nice; but then, she is a whore. She is undoubtedly good at seeming. "Often, the ones who want nothing else are the ones who pay the best, your majesty," Nutmeg tells you demurely. "I don't charge kings for conversation, as long as my time is covered. I've no desire to be beaten for failing to bring in my honest coin!"
She chuckles, a gurgle in the back of her throat as your arms wrap around you, as you begin to tease at the silk she wears. "When I take nights off, your majesty, which I do, of course - who can do the same thing day in, night out, again and again? I'd grow stale if I didn't! - When I do, I don't do what I do when I work. Am I supposed to list the prices of all that I do, then, and let you choose?", she asks playfully. "One from column A, two from column B, that's thirty gold - oh, but there's a sharing charge if you want to bring in someone else. I'm a whore, your majesty, not a Chinese restaurant!"
She finds you simply too funny, and her hands now land to either side of your face, lips brushing your nose. "I have faith in your ability to pay," she says cheerfully. "But your willingness ... that's up to fate, or luck. Or my skill." One hand drops to brush yours where it toys with her fabrics. "How may I serve you best? If it's through pleasure, then pleasure, of course!"
"Do you come with won-ton?" he chuckles. The idea of you being a Chinese restaurant tickles him, clearly. His laughter is unrestrained, real, warm. "You're mine tonight. I'll cover your time till morning," Davydd whispers. You're funny. You make me laugh. Tonight, this is worth its weight...and yours... in gold.
"Now that business is out of the way," he drolls warmly. We can relax and just... be. Maybe that's what I need. And, sex, of course. Davydd sits up, hands taking the edge of his shirt. He lifts it up and off, tossing it aside. "Your skill," he smiles, lying back. He is a wonder of blue dragon paintings, the powers of trees glows from his skin, and those serpents take on a living vividness. Beneath this, hard muscle. And lots of it.
The cinnamon cloth of your gown peels from your skin. The king wants a better look at you. The finger pads of his hands are both soft and rough. There are calluses there still from swords and arrows and bows of a lifetime of lifetimes.
"What would you say your skill is, apart from your beauty, and your... disarming charm and humor?" the king says with a smile. Those twinkling eyes. He's a killah when he wants to be...
Her laughter peals as you talk about won-ton, and there is no regret, no objection to your undressing of her. She is in some ways built very much like the queen (your wife); her breasts are much the same, and she has a birthmark on her left shoulder that is just the same as your queen's. But there are differences.
Where Fiona's skin is flawless, smooth, this little whore has a jagged white scar which puckers over one hip, in towards but not quite to her navel. She's made no attempt to cover it with makeup or other such things that would only come away during passionate embraces; it is there, and she neither apologizes nor draws attention to it. "Skill, your majesty? I could be like some of the other girls and make promises noone could fulfill, but you and I would both know there's no truth in advertising."
Nutmeg grins at you, a warm, lopsided smile that threatens to spill over the edges of her mouth. "My best skill isn't a skill at all; it was a gift, and one I'm thankful to have. When I'm lying here with you, it's you I'm with, your majesty. I'm not thinking of my nails, or the bills I've got to pay, or of any of my other customers. It's you I think of. I save the thinking for when I'm not with you." Her hands smooth over your tattoos, a light sparkling touch with magic beneath her skin. She's made from magic, after all. "Is it skill? I don't know. Would you rather I go into more lewd and obscene details?"
He sees your breasts -- it would be impossible not to -- but he sees Hers as well. He misses her. His eyes don't lie, can't lie when it comes to her. As much as he'd like to sometimes. The scar doesn't so much as get a second glance. He's a man of a real world, from a real time, a place where little is perfect, where life is often brutal and short just like Hobbes contended.
His right hand slides over the rise and fall of a breast, wandering up to your chin and then following the slope of your neck downward until his hand slides around your other breast. He doesn't croon about your beauty. He doesn't paw you. His hand cups you, a thumb rubbing along the side of a nipple.
"And you don't mind if your partner, paid or no, is not likewise as... present with you? Tonight, you are you and a queen to me. And to other men, you have been lovers won and lovers lost, I imagine. Wives, sweethearts, other men's wives coveted."
It is magic, as much your similarities to his wife, that calls him. He is pulled to it, entering an almost trance-like focus. His own magic hums electricity against your skin. His fingers do not touch you now -- they hover a millimeter from your skin, but it feels as physical as his hand.
"I do not need to hear the details, no." Davydd smiles. The vipered teeth are visible in his smile. "Your gift is... focus on the present?" He would rather talk about you, even as he is bending his head, his mouth both cool and warm as it brushes against your breast, his mouth feeling its way to the rise of the nipple.
Fiona, you fill your village with these... clones. At first, I have to say they disgusted me. I recoiled in revulsion, thinking of fucking robots. But now I'm thankful for them. One tastes like you, another sounds like you, one smells like you, another laughs like you, one fights like you, another sings like you. If I could round them all up into one harem, I would be surrounded by you and not lonely when you leave. But you'd kill me if I started a harem.
Fuck, you'll probably want to kill me for this...
His tongue swaths against you, then his mouth closes tightly, tightly suckling. Any eavesdropping girls would know the tell-tale silence, follows by occasional masculine exhales, the slight complaint of bedsprings, the sound of foreplay in progress. Fiery hair smoothes against your skin, brilliant against the paleness of your own, as his head moves, his mouth wandering to your other breast.
"Your majesty, few men are here because of the women who are actually here." Her voice is as tolerant and warm as her smile. "They might come because of loneliness, or desire, or need - but we aren't really meant to be, to them, who we really are. We're figments; illusions. Most play parts every moment of the day as well as the night. I can be myself, so I am here! With you, because tonight you're the one who wants my time. If you need to call me by another name, see me with another face, then I am here for you to do that."
The magic beneath her skin has that familiar taste to it. If you did not already know what she was, if you could not tell, now you would know for certes. Her hands are clever - but not like Fiona's hands. She may have some of Fiona's essence, but she is not Fiona. She is only like her...
"Mmm," Nutmeg murmurs, her hand coming up to stroke your cheek as you suckle, rolling her breast forward against your mouth with a little laugh. "It was a gift from my mother, yes. She told me that it was what she did best for the man she loved, whenever she could. That she was there, with him, and the world fell away. And she gave that ability to me; said if I stayed here, I'd find it'd come in handy."
You asked, and she tells you, her hands moving slowly in even little strokes against your skin, fluttering, kneading, stroking in little whorls and loops as if to better leave her fingerprints upon you. "So I focus on you," Nutmeg whispers, croons down at you, smile tender now. "Because I can. What can I do for you, your majesty, other than fill your mouth?" Her laughter is soft, pleased, without mockery.
God damn it, what the fuck is wrong with me?
He chuckles as you chuckle, his mouth falling away with an audible pop. He exhales lukewarm against your breasts, his face burying there. I should be able to just roll you over and fuck you. I used to, regardless of who I was keeping time with. But I can't seem to find pleasure in anything if she isn't here with me.
Davydd rolls back, landing on his back with a mighty groan. He looks at you then at the ceiling. "I used to be a wretched thing," he murmurs. "Just between you and me," he murmurs. "I used to be quite wild and wretched. An untamed creature. Strong, mighty, full of confidence. Then," he sighs, "...I got married. Now... I'm domesticated. A domesticated dragon is a sad, silly thing."
Rolling up with a groan, he sits up. A bottle of brandy appears on the table. Here, if you think it, it will manifest. He opens it with a strong twist of his hands. "Before I met her, I would have had your rolled by now. But," he sighs, "...now I feel you, I think of her, I realize you aren't her, not fault of your own, you're a lovely thing, and I've not the will to do what a wretched man should."
"She's off with another man, and all I can think to do with a beautiful, winged working girl is bemoan her absence and drink. Pathetic, isn't it?" The High King smirks. "Don't answer that."
"Wild, your majesty? I don't think you're as tame as you think." Nutmeg's movements are unhurried as you fall back, moving to sit up. She doesn't bother covering her breasts, leaving them on display for you. "But wretched? Is it good or bad to be wretched? Is it good or bad to be something other than wretched?" Her smile blossoms into being again, and she moves round to behind you as you sit up, rubbing your shoulders.
"I'm not her; I'm only myself. Maybe it would be easier with someone else. If you want, I'll call in one of the other girls," Nutmeg suggests blithely, seeming not in the slightest hurt by rejection. But there is that glassy resilience to her; what can you do to hurt her? What can you do to reach her? Here she is, with you...
"Here... I think what you need more than even a good hard shag," the winged creature smiles to you, blue eyes glimmering, "is someone to pay attention to you. You know, your majesty, you're very well regarded here. I don't mean here, in this brothel, but in the queen's city. Not just because you're the High King. Maybe what you need is to hear something about that? And maybe you should have something to eat. I have some carrot cake my sister made, if you like. Will that go well with brandy?"
"I don't need to hear how well I'm regarded," he glances back to you as you're draped around his back and shoulders. "Goddess knows I can't concern myself with whether I'm loved or not. Respected or not. If you start asking that question, you'll drive yourself nutty." No, dear, that's not it.
But the carrot cake is closer. "Everything goes well with cake," the king glances over his painted shoulder to you. "You can feed me... that'll do for now." Davydd takes a swallow of the brandy, offering it to you for a sip. "Oes," he leans back against you, kissing your cheek. "We'll lie in this bed naked, eating cake and drinking brandy." And maybe he'll work his way back to wretched.
Reaching around you, his hand pats you gently in a Go get the cake fashion and he begins to stand, his hands moving to the fastening of modern trousers. The belt buckle tinkles and chimes as he undoes it then the pants. The wool pools to his feet, revealing the other vivid tattoos carved on his skin. Socks are the last to go. All are tossed in the same pile to be retrieved later.
Taking the bottle back with him, Davydd returns to the bed, tosses back the covers and begins lording over the bed. Though he's not completely rigid, his considerable thickness is still considerable..
There's a laugh and a shrug. She can't always be right. It isn't a concern of hers, exactly; she just has to try and say the right thing, do the right thing. She rolls off the bed, cinnamon silks sliding away to pool along the floor, rustling against her skin as she goes to the small bureau. "She always makes this cake herself," she confides as she takes a tin from a drawer. "With her, it's carrot cake, carrot cake, all the time! Another of my sisters prefers gingerbread. I do love gingerbread," she muses dreamily. "It's just as well she doesn't make it often. I'd get so fat."
The tin is carried to you as if it contained a holy relic, the lid opened so you can see the pale, pinkish-white frosting atop the nutmeg cake. She sets it down, the flops onto the bed across from you, propping herself on her elbows and giving you a smile. "You're a very handsome man," Nutmeg says matter of factly. "And I must admit, it's a shame I'm not what you want. I wouldn't mind seeing what that," her hand reaches out, hovering over your thickness, "feels like."
She doesn't touch you, though, not without your consent. You've made your statement, and she has to obey. Instead, she reaches in to pluck out a sizable chunk of cake, resting it upon her palm, and now she breaks a bit off, holding it out to you. "Try it," Nutmeg smiles, "it's got raisins in it that have been soaked in golden sherry."
"It's not you," he notes. His hand closes around your wrist, and he guides your hand to his mouth, his head bending. He eats from your hand, sucking the sugary sweetness from your skin. No, from the reaction of his body, it is definitely not you. The dragons twist around his length as it thickens with more blood. "Sit on my lap," he softly instructs.
Propped up against the headboard on your many pillows, Davydd widens his thighs, preparing his lap for your arrival. He opens his mouth, expecting another bite. He grins, his lips curling to show the lengthening fangs. They could rip flesh. The cake has no chance.
"I love gingerbread too. But any cake'll do, really. This is good. Better with your skin to go with." You will feel it, that which you wish to know, when you climb onto his thighs to straddle his lap. "And there's nothing wrong with a little extra around the belly and hips. I like my girls with a bit more to them. Maybe it's all those cold nights in Wales," he grins a lopsided grin.
Her eyes widen a bit, but she obeys; of course she obeys. There's a little wiggle as she settles into your laps, a daring, defiant little twist of her hips and a sigh for the contact. She and her sisters - those who were, like her, created by Fiona for the houses of pleasure - were not created this way in vain. Your wife is not that cruel. They enjoy their work... wholeheartedly...
And other portions of their anatomy as well...
"A little extra, your majesty," Nutmeg retorts merrily as she brings her finger back to her own mouth, "is one thing. But not all men share an interest in women moving in that direction!" She suckles icing left on her fingers, tasting the sweetness and smiling at you around her own fingers. With another wiggle, she braces herself on her knees, one hand touching to your face lightly. "I am not much of a cook, I am afraid. do you like sweet best, or savory?"
"Both," it's an easy answer, easily given. With you on his lap, straddling thighs and hips, you feel the strong pulse of regal virility against your belly. His arms encircle you, holding your hips in place. The brandy rests on the bedside table. The cake shared between you from your fingers only.
At your belly, you feel a tightening, a jerking of male flesh as between your two pressing bodies he is engorged. Davydd leans in, sucking the sugar and spices from your fingertips. You may not be a cook, but you make a hell of a dessert...
Thick fingers slide between your thighs. "Most men actually don't care," he chuckles. "When it comes right...down to it." Head inclining, his lashes lower. He looks at your face, your eyes as you pluck at the cake -- and as his fingers pluck and slip inside you, his other hand kneading the round of your rear.
Nutmeg moans softly, her hand sliding from your face to her shoulders as she undulates her hips against you, bumping you and withdrawing. Her laugh bubbles up quietly from between her lips. "Why, thank you, your majesty," she coos, "I try to keep a warm kitchen."
Warm and inviting. She laughs again, head tipping to the side as she regards you with something like affection, a slow and spreading grin that is for a moment, remarkably like Fiona's. But she is not Fiona; she has her own ways about her. "You are ... mm ... very attractive, your majesty," she murmurs against your ear. Her breasts roll and sway as she leans in against you, caressing your chest with that press of her nipples.
You slip into her, and she sighs, eyelashes fluttering, eyes closing, and you receive that broadening pink smile. "There's nothing like a man who's really a man," Nutmeg murmurs, tongue-tip teasing against your ear as she rolls her hips. "I admire that in you, your majesty, but I'm more interested in the idea of you in me."
For a moment, for the entire life of that smile, you become her to him. He grins at the smile, at the meaning he understands though he barely knows you at all. It gives rise to a sudden intimacy -- beyond that which is created by the sliding and thrusting of his fingers. It is an emotional intimacy.
But you are not her, his wife, his queen, this woman he loves. She is Elseplace. But you, her purposely made facsimile, will have to do...
Dark green eyes speak of dangerous woods, the shadows of trees in the deepest groves. They lift to you, looking up from the juncture of your wide parted thighs. The vines of his attention are grasping. His fingers slide away and out of you and to his own thickness. It is well-suited to his hands, to the sinews of his form. The thick crown is rubbed between your legs, slapped against your swollen flesh -- nearly as swollen as his own, in your own way.
"Death is attractive... that is why people jump from great heights, charge into war," Davydd smiles as he rubs himself against you, oiling his length and teasing you both. You feel the great pressure of him starting to enter you. He still grasps himself by the root, and his hand slides in stroking, balancing as he thrusts slightly in and out. So thick, the king, that it takes a few pressings before your body can adjust.
The poor, poor, lucky queen...
"A very warm kitchen," the king chuckles, a throaty sound that becomes a growled groan as he removes himself and rubs your clit with his crown again. "I do like a woman who can cook." The grin is wicked and fanged. The danger is real, the beauty unreal. Real, too, the feel of him entering you again, this time sudden and fully.
Even in this, she is not Fiona. She feels like a woman; unmistakably that. But there are differences. Her breasts are larger, her hips, a trifle wider, her waist, wasp-like. Some fantasy of your queen's, perhaps, an idealized version of herself set forth?
"If you were to tell me to jump, your majesty," the words are demure, echoed between murrs and small little sounds of pleasure, "I would, of course, jump. But I do not know how great a ah! - a height I would jump from." One blue eye closes in a bawdy wink, and she makes another pleasured sound, shuddering as you slap against her. And then you press...
"Mmm," Nutmeg makes a sound of unmistakable enjoyment, rolling her hips as you spread her with your thickness. "I ... am Nutmeg, your majesty... what else can I do but cook?"
Her hands go to your shoulders, as if to brace herself, massaging against your skin with a spicy scent left where she touches you. Her eyes are half-closed, cheeks darkening a bit. She isn't as loud as your queen, even if she makes little sounds. But she presses down with that wriggle to her hips, enveloping you within her softness, squeezing and releasing. You receive a knowing, womanly smile with closed eyes and flushed cheeks.
She knows this dance. She's danced this dance a thousand times or more. It doesn't stop her from enjoying it - from enjoying you. She tips her head to the side, golden hair tumbling in a riot forward over one breast. And her hands are never still, touching you here, touching you there, doing for your pleasure rather than for her own.
I would feel guilty, but secretly I think she's created all of you for especially for me. The large breasts, the large hips -- she knows I'm a breast and hip man. The little echoes of herself she leaves behind as if to say 'Yes, my husband, I know you are a man who cannot help himself, so help yourself to me'.
The fact that all of you are named for food only confirms it. It's not as if I'm grabbing random women in London. These are your chosen girls. Your little secret gifts, subtle but... I seem to find them well enough...
He is clove to your nutmeg. It is there in his kiss, in his sweat. His hands grasp your hips, both pulling you onto him however he like and holding you, bracing you against the sudden onslaught of the high king's motion.
Your sisters listening there at the door are likely red-faced and seething to hear the shaking of the bed, to hear the grunts of the high king. By the time you emerge from this chamber, you will be the most famous prostitute in the Pink Tulip... well... in the Red Light District.
"Why don't you show me what you think of it, now that it's in you," Davydd grins, his hands beneath your rear, cupping. He lifts you nearly off of him before dropping you to cover him once more.
She smiles at you, smiles against your kiss, and there's the gurgle of laughter in the back of her throat. "What am I to say, your majesty? I'm a lucky girl," Nutmeg purrs at you, rolling her hips as you drop her. There's a little gasp for the smacking contact, and another burst of rippling laughter.
"After all," she tells you coyly, rocking back and forth on her knees, "how many girls get to be anointed with the king's rod?" She chuckles, the sound lost in a pleased-sounding sigh as she reaches down with one hand to squeeze the base of that rod as she lifts herself up.
Fingers dance in arpeggios there, as she squeezes herself tightly around your crown, hips gyrating in slow circles. "It is a kingly scepter," Nutmeg coos, "and one I won't be forgetting in a hurry, your majesty. And no woman can doubt or deny your virility, for certes! Tell me if you would like me to do anything different..."
He can't help but laugh, groaned laugh though it is. "Bloody hell, not as many as there used to be." He grins, the lips curling away from those threatening teeth. "Sad state of affairs, monogamy. I'm not the same if I'm not being wretched. It's who I am, what I am... " He closes his eyes as you squeeze around him. That, that is a look of ecstasy. His eyebrows knit together in intensity, and for that time he says nothing.
But I gave her my pledge, yeah? Monogamous in heart, if not in body. Well, the pledge of the heart is the greater pledge. Besides, how does she think I'm going to stay faithful in body if she's trotting all over the fucking globe? I'm no priest, that's for fucking sure...
"No, that's good," Davydd murmurs, a lazy smile spreading across his his face. "So talented... perhaps too talented to serve any but the king," an eye peeps open. "Maybe I should enlist you as my personal courtesan." He laughs this, his hands going back to your wide hips and pulling you onto him as his hips lift off the bed.
She'd fucking kill me. But! Wouldn't it be better for me to fuck one of her clones, one she knows, maybe even one she picks out, than thinking I'm out falling in love with someone else, or god forbid falling back in with Rose or Sandrine in moments of... weak constitution or loneliness?
Suddenly, the king's rolling you over. Your thighs parted widely, he presses them back until your knees are at the pillows, your toes skimming the headboard. His strong arms hold them there, his hands burying and burrowing into the pillows there.
Circling, thrusting, slapping -- his tattooed body meets yours strongly. Dragons coil and twist on twisting muscles. His defined form seems all the more defined by those markings. Thighs wide, you bent doubled, he becomes your earth and your sky -- and he thunders and lightnings in you. The king grins down at you, his hips jutting forward roughly. "Do you taste as sweet as you feel?"
Good lord, if she walks on my spine, I'll be in heaven. A serving woman to serve all my particular needs. And magical, too, her creator has seen to that. I could have a harem of them... a banquet well-suited for a royal vampire...
She is unaware of your inner rant, your inner monologue, concerned only with the outer man. And that, perhaps, is the true difference between Fiona and her creations.
Nutmeg is warm, yes, but it is a warmth of the flesh. The rest? It's words. But sometimes, maybe that's all you want?
"Ah, your majesty," Nutmeg's laugh bubbles up again, "what would you have me do? Women get bored when they're left to their own devices, you know." She sinks down onto you again, enveloping you deeply. "You could afford me, for certes, I'm hardly that expensive! But what would I do when you weren't enlisting my services? Take up knitting, or spinning? Me? A whore?"
She laughs again, as if it's the funniest thing imaginable - then lets out a startled sound as she's rolled over and pressed back. That startled sound becomes a moan as you thrust into her. How is she to talk, compressed so? She makes burbling noises, like a brook whose banks runneth over. "...Taste me and see, your majesty!", Nutmeg manages to gasp out, and her hands find your skin where they can.
Oh, it's too late for that now. Studied professional as you are, you must realize that. The color of his skin is ruddied, the sweat of exertion makes the tattoos glow. Were you his wife, he'd slow down -- he'd try to slow down for her sake. He'd wiggle inside her, changing the tempo. He might even pull out of her and bury his face between her thighs -- her taste unparalleled.
Oh, her taste...
That's all the king needs -- little do you know -- to dive headlong into release. Pulling from you, creating a sudden vacuum, the high king strokes himself quickly, his head bowed as his seed covers your breasts.
Magical as it is, there is an electrical buzz to it. The smell of salt, musk, ocean, clove and pine are heavy on the air even as he is heavily leaning on you.His length starts to lower, the thickness very gradually withdrawing. Closing his eyes, he bends and kisses you on the forehead.
"God forbid you should be forced into domesticity. I would hate to see such a clever, sweet whore have to turn to needlepoint." Davydd's mouth cuts a slant. His bowed head allows him to gaze openly at your body beneath him. "Hmmm... and so flexible," he murrs, grinning wickedly.
Rising up on hands and knees, Davydd eases back to sit on his haunches, allowing you to stretch out your legs. The bed shifts wildly as Davydd rolls over, collapsing to lie on his back.
You receive a smile through the glow of sweat (if ladies glow, what do whores do?) and Nutmeg squirms up next to you where you've collapsed, wriggling her way so she's lying alongside you with one hand lightly on your chest. "Tsk, your majesty," she mock-scolds, "you should pace yourself! Shall I bring you something cold to drink while you recover?"
Flexible she is, and seeming more than a little pleased with herself. She smoothes her hair back with a practiced hand, then folds her hands together on your shoulder, chin dropping there so she can peer at you coyly. "What would you like of me next, your majesty? If there is anything I might arrange..."
Pace myself? A fiery eyebrow cocks up and he gives you a look. Did you just accuse me of finishing off too soon? What is it with women? They're either calling you old, begging you to finish already or complaining you finish off too soon. There's no pleasing them.
A hand pats your backside strongly. A signal for you to get up and start serving him. "A cool mead for now." There won't be much of a recovery period. The moon is a sliver of light in the sky, and the king's libido is at its height. His wife, nowhere in sight.
Davydd frowns at that thought. I miss you. "On second thought, I need a swim." He's sitting up now. "Have the cool mead waiting," and now standing, "... and I'll come back for it in an hour or so. In the meantime, you can bathe and get ready for my return." He pulls on his trousers. You do not normally charge for gold -- so few of your clients could afford such. But rather than three coppers, there are indeed three gold coins on the night table as Davydd steps away. "Don't let the rest of my clothes grow legs, yeah? I know how...curious some of your sisters can be."
Blue eyes grow round at the sight of gold, let alone so much, and the blonde head nods energetically. "Yes, of course, your majesty," Nutmeg chirrups to you, and she smiles. The gold disappears with such speed. "It will be waiting; I promise. And no, your clothes will remain here, and I'll keep the door locked until your return."
Where there's been gold once, after all...
He can afford to be generous. And all that glitters can buy many things, including discretion. "Take a nice long warm bath. Almond oil...rose oil..." The High King heads for your door, less than fully clothed. In fact, in trousers only. Barefoot, he heads into the hall.
Sweetheart... you don't know what you're being gone does to me...
As far as you are from him, thousands of miles of space and time, his voice can still reach you. It can, and does, slide against your blood like a hand. He doesn't even care if you and Rhodri are in the midst of coital frenzy. He needs to hear you... feel you...
How the hell am I supposed to make it another two weeks? It is all about me. Davydd heads downstairs in the brothel. He must make quite the spectacle. Royal tattoos revealed for all to witness, power exposed along with his body, smelling of Nutmeg and nutmeg. No one cheers him like they do the other men who come downstairs after coming upstairs -- he's the high king! It wouldn't be respectful...
I miss you, girl.
As far as you are from her, your voice reaches her; and she reacts. How can she do anything but? Even reclining naked between the thinnest of sheets, now she sits up, stirs, sighs.
I miss you, too.
It isn't automatic. It's sincere; heartfelt. Never once in all the time since the tree bit her and led to such interesting events has she been able to do anything but miss you. It has been an ache inside of her for so long...
Silly man, don't you know it? I love you so much. It isn't fair to other people, how much I love you. How much you're wound inside my skin, inside my blood and bone. When I'm apart from you, I always know it - and I always regret it.
Can you see, in some small way, the small pink smile on Fiona's lips in the darkness, as she rises to pad, naked, barefoot across cool tiles to the bath where she is? Or do you only imagine it?
It isn't just sexual. It isn't just emotional. You're a part of me. When we're apart ... I feel it. Why do you think I need you so much? I love you so much, that it hurts. It used to frighten me, loving you so much.
Fiona isn't even sure if she's talking to you, really talking to you, or if this is thought to herself as she splashes cool water from a basin on her skin. She sighs, leaning forward with her arms folded over her breasts. It isn't fair to other people, she admits. But ... it's better for us, isn't it? When we're apart ... we remember this. How intense it is. How good, too. And the smile reappears, sudden, glowing in reflection in the mirror. I love you, Davy. I never want to be apart from you. But you wouldn't like it, would you, if I turned into a clinging vine, would you? You need me to be able to bite you, when you bite me...
Nothing wrong with vines...
The trousers are dropped at the water's edge. He has no shame. He doesn't need any. Davydd dives into the cold water of the sea. I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do when you're touring. I can't go on the road with you. You, gone for six months at a time. I'm not sure I like the thought of that. Beneath the moon, naked in the water this dragon king swims. He floats away from the ships, he submerges and moves easily beneath the waves, surfacing again further away from the shore. Here, he can relax on his back, his body given to the moonlight and stars.
I need you to bite me...oes... but it doesn't mean I don't want to see you, need to see you. I don't do well... when you're not around. I get gloomy. And prone to be despicable. He doesn't say that. He's sure you don't need him to.
You are enjoying India? How's the honeymoon? Have you even seen any of the country yet or just the flowers hanging from your ceiling. There's no bite or sting of jealousy in those thoughts ...perhaps that's due to distance. There is the twinge of humor on it -- that is clear. You have two more weeks... and then.... maybe you and I will have some time? I am crawling out of my skin. I can't taste you. I can't feel you.
When I come back, I will be all yours for as long as I've been all Rhodri's. She promises you this so willingly, so readily. If you asked for the moon, would she promise you that, too? You can take me places and show me off, and take me to bed. I wish you would, really. I like being your woman, Davy. I like knowing that you love me, that I'm yours. Don't you know that by now?
Silly man ...
She adores you far too much, far too much even for her own good. And she knows it. And she doesn't care.
I've seen a lot of the ceiling and a bit of the country - this country is enormous, did you know that? But the bathrooms anywhere public are horrible, and I admit I'm starting to rather long for home already. I miss you. I miss the boys. I miss the dogs, and Lord Sangria, and the castle, and ... well, I guess I'm more prone to homesickness than I thought I'd be. But I've been easily distracted, so it's worked out.
Fiona smiles to herself, running water into the bath. I'm glad you've missed me. Do miss me, darling - but not too much, hmm? I'll be home to torment you soon enough. Why don't you take the boys hunting? Be manly men together. Run around and get dirty and smelly and covered in filth and blood. And when you get back, I'll be back, and I'll make a fuss at you for tracking muck all over my best rugs and messing up my nice new clothes and scratching at your chest and in no time, you'll be ready to ship me back to India.
One naked pink foot steps into the water and it is pronounced good. She lowers herself by degrees, languid in warm water as you are in cold. And when we're done with me scratching and biting you and you throwing me over your shoulder and marching off, we can be as naked and intimate with each other as that. Sometimes I feel like you're the only one who understands me, Davy.
Men are a pale substitute, darlin', for what I need. The boys'll be with me, but ...a man, specifically a man like him, even more specifically, himself, ...needs more than a pair of sons and a pair of corgies...
He floats in the water, dunks himself beneath it, resurfacing a moment later. Alright, enough complaining...if I think too much on't, I'll get really gloomy. Cry into my beer or sommat. Turning in the water, he begins to swim back toward the shore.
Oes? That can't be, though. Your Other seems to have a pretty firm grasp on all things Fiona. What makes you say that, love? Hands cup sea water, moving it over his own face, his hair, clearing out the cobwebs of his own thoughts. Those he isn't sharing with you.
I do miss you, yeah. As much as you drive me crazy when you're about. Still, it's not the same coming back to life and not being able to roll on top of you. I'd rather you be with me. Taking care of me. You know how I need looking after.
And when you are not here to do it... what then? What am I supposed to do, Fiona? Slowly, Davydd moves back to the shore, his barefeet easily traversing the stones. Unashamed of his naked state, he strides back to where his trousers lie.
I love both of you. You know that. Fiona allows herself to drift back in the water, eyes closed, hair curling and floating on the warmth before slowly darkening from pale gold to something richer, sinking in coils and tendrils. But ... I love you differently. I don't know if I can explain it. You're different people...
Very different, and not just in ways of sexual appetite - or appetites for food or blood. She curls her toes, then lets her feet relax, sprawling out in the tub.
With you, there is ... an immediacy. There has been since I first saw you. I look at you, and I just want to crawl into your arms and I don't care what happens next. I just know it'll be good.
With you, it's ... I don't know. Rhodri ... I don't love him because of you, or because he's your son. But he just isn't you, Davydd. And maybe that's alright, but ... I need you. With him, it's too easy, in some ways, I suppose. With you, it's difficult...
She smiles to herself, in the darkened bath, eyes closed so that it's doubly dark. And I like that. I need that push and pull that keeps bringing you and me together. I need to feel your hands, your mouth, your teeth. I need to bleed a little... and know that by doing so - you get something out of it. You just fulfill me, Davydd. And I don't know how to put it into words. Rhodri and I ... no matter how I try, I feel like I can't fight my way past the surface, most of the time. He loves me, and I'm glad of it, but with you - it's more real.
Love him for who he is, as he does you. If you compare you feelings, him versus me, or whatever, you'll not give your head or heart space to contain us both. We're different, we know that. You know that. So...just leave it alone already. Enjoy it for what it is.
I should take my own advice one of these nights...
Davydd pulls on his trousers, the cloth sticking to him with nothing to dry himself. He slowly turns toward the Pink Tulip, wandering back to the whores and the liquor. Don't pick at it so much that you take all the fun out of it. You're as bad as I am, woman. And I'm bad enough for both of us. Enjoy your time, enjoy him, India, the honey dust he licks of your skin...you know... all of that.
Now, all I want to do is drink and smoke. The time for whores is done. The momentary release isn't enough. Wasn't enough. Won't be enough. He could fuck until it fell off, it wouldn't matter. You would still not be here, not in his bed, not beneath him, your skin giving way to his.
It will end like this. Davydd will go and fetch his shoes, shirt, jacket (and in his jacket, his cigarettes and lighter) and he will return home, not to his island...well, yes...to his island -- only Britain and not the Island of the Moonless Kingdom. He will go to his flat, he'll pour whiskey and smoke and play his piano. And he will think of you. Of your slim form and your eventual acquiescence to his own.
Posted by rowan at May 25, 2006 11:27 AM
