1 comments/ 15790 views/ 5 favorites Always, Lady Basti Ch. 01 By: unpredictablebijou I tell him, You will refer to me as My Lady. You will keep your eyes down unless I tell you to look at me. You will remember at all times that I will do exactly as I like with you. I tell him, you are in a unique position. I will tell you this once, and you may choose to understand it if you wish. You have been given as a gift to me, to seal an alliance with another warrior queen, who believed that you would please me so much that we could seal the truce between us. You were exchanged at great price and your ability and willingness to please me will determine a great deal about the outcome of this alliance. The fate of two nations rests on you. Yet your task is not a complex one, not like the tasks of the queens you serve and obey. She and I spend our days dealing with a multitude of problems, and the fates of thousands of people rest upon our decisions. She and I face a different challenge with every dawn. Your life, your task, is far simpler. it is a singular focus. It is to please me, to be the perfect diversion for me, the perfect reward for my days spent doing what I do. I am neither cruel nor inhuman. My wish is not for embittered slaves who serve me reluctantly, but for servants who take joy in their participation, knowing that I am fair and human, knowing that I am capable of affection and generosity. It is my wish that you come to take great joy in your service to me, that your pleasure be genuine and your trust in me complete. But I will have obedience, regardless of your motives. Never doubt that. Willingly or not, joyfully or not, it is your choice. You will serve my pleasure, my whim and my desires, regardless. In time I may come to treasure and value you, and perhaps you will earn my tolerance and flexibility. But at this moment you have only one choice: to do as I say, to the utmost of your ability, without hesitation. I sit back, take a good long look at him, kneeling before me, head down. Excellent shoulders, and from the looks of it a good strong frame. He will be quite strong enough to handle my desires. My rival and ally knows more of my tastes than I suspected. I wonder which servant has been passing along information about my peculiarities and preferences. Must look into that. Either death or a rich reward awaits that servant, whoever it is. We'll see. You're from the north, they tell me. light hair, light eyes. I hear your people are strong and stubborn. They told me your name. I found it unpronounceable. Do you like your name? No My Lady, he says. I hate it. That takes me by surprise. And do you miss your home? I ask. No, My Lady, he says. I ran away. Well now, I say. Perhaps the gods have brought you here for your own happiness. We'll see. In the meantime, I must call you something. You have a certain spirit, and you are quite pleasing to the eye. I shall call you Khu for your spirit and Neferu for your beauty. It is a greatly fortunate name I have given you. I am grateful, my lady, he says. I don't believe I gave you permission to speak. But you please me, and you will learn. In this case I will allow it. You may always thank me for my gifts to you. He bows more deeply, straightens his spine, shoulders back. A perfect slave's pose. I'm more pleased than I dare let on. Mustn't let him have his head too soon. Nehebka, bitch that she is, has given me quite the gift. Stand up and turn around, I say. Let me look at you. He presents himself modestly, his eyes down. He turns slowly. I can see him suppressing his trembling. Good. His anticipation and fear will be easily sculpted into desire. They have decorated him nicely for me too -- a fine new tunic and silk breeches, in soft colors that enhance his fairness. He wears thick bronze armbands and the heavy chain of a slave around his broad neck. Undress, I say. I wish to see you unclothed. Now he cannot suppress his trembling. He pulls the tunic off, slowly, and unties the laces on his breeches, letting them fall. Then he stands, well-trained this one, hands clasped behind him, eyes lowered. I can feel his stare on my feet. He is dying to look at me. His phallus is well-shaped and well-sized. This one will be delicious, I can tell already. Another important test. You may look at me now, for a moment, I say. You have my permission. I settle back to enjoy his gaze and watch his responses. They are gratifying. His eyes travel along my body, up leg and hip and waist, lingering on my breasts that move behind thin white linen. It is good to feel desirable, after all day hiding my desires under armor, leather, powerplays and fierce negotiations. And yes. His phallus rises at the sight of me, as I hoped it would. He notices, and lowers his gaze, embarassed. He wants very badly to move his hands, to cover himself. But he controls this instinct, keeping his hands behind him as he has been taught. Excellent. He is indeed as well-trained in the basics as Nehebka's minion described. But he has never been a bedroom slave. He will be a fascinating toy. It is time to test the stamina and nature of this toy. To see if simple obedience can be sculpted into singular devotion. Go to that wall, I say, pointing. Take hold of the two thick ropes you see there. Wrap them round your wrists so that you can grip them tightly. I shall manacle you if I see fit to, but for now I will simply command you to hold the ropes yourself, and not let go. Grave punishment awaits if you release your grip. He lowers his eyes and moves to the wall, spreading his arms and gripping the ropes, one on each side, his back to me. His breathing is ragged and his skin is already flushed. I shall redden it far more. The ropes are beautiful wound down his thick forearms like serpents. They echo the ropes of his muscles even now straining in his shoulders and thighs. I move toward him. I lean in and breathe into his ear. He shudders. I whisper, Your feet. Spread them far apart. He does so, stretching his arms further up and apart. Now he is almost truly suspended, arms stretched to the limit. I take up the scourge, my favorite black oxhide, with the smooth wooden handle that fits my hand perfectly. I want him to see it, so I slide the tails over his shoulder and down onto his chest, dragging it across his nipple. He gasps and shudders again. My other hand slides down his belly and finds his cock. It leaps in my hand, going from half-erect to quite hard at my touch. I slide my hand further down, to his well-formed scrotum, which is contracted, as if he is already very aroused. And further, to see how he reacts, my hand moves between his legs, exploring his secrets, fingering that dark opening. He gasps and his cock leaps. His hands tighten on the ropes. This is better than I had dared hope. But I mustn't show my pleasure so immediately. I back away without saying anything, and lay the scourge across his back, just so he can feel its length and weight. He is shaking, but he is breathing deeply. Training again, taking over. He's controlling his arousal and trying to focus his attention. Excellent. The scourge strikes him in the center of his shoulderblades. then again on each side of his torso. I work lightly at first, watching his response. He begins to relax into the sensation. I'm not even causing him pain just yet, only a this mild rhythm that brings the blood to the skin and warms him. The buttocks, the back, the thighs. I find the rhythm of it and my mind begins to clear itself as I move, making patterns of red lashmarks on his skin. All the worries of the day, this domestic dispute and that battle negotiation, this supply question and that strategy for battle, all are fading, replaced by my even breath and the sound of the scourge against this lovely back. There is no anger in the strokes; quite the contrary, with each movement I clear my heart to deep affection, to pleasure, I focus on the single beat of the lash, the sound of my own breathing and his, the way his body tenses and releases with each strike. Nothing else exists. It seems like pure love that I lay across his pale skin, love and desire surging deep into his flesh with every stroke. I will make you love me, I think. I will burn desire and affection into your very soul. You will want nothing beyond what I desire, and you will be richly rewarded. I let the scourge trail off and move forward to stroke his cock again. It is half-hard; he is deep in that trance that comes from the rhythm and the movement of blood, but as soon as I touch him he shudders as if awakening, and his breath quickens. I can tell he is dying to speak, gritting his teeth to keep himself silent. You may speak, I say to him as I fondle his thick phallus. Gods, he says. goddess, mistress, my lady, I'd do anything, anything... he's babbling, breathing hard between words. Anything to convince me to stop? I say. No, he gasps, and catches himself. No, My Lady. No. I beg you, I beg you to continue. If it pleases you, if it delights you, I beg you, please... He stops himself. He's trying not to speak too freely, even though he is drunk with sensation and barely able to think. He's very strong, this one. Anything, my Lady. Anything you ask of me. I smile, then, allow myself true pleasure in this acquisition. He's quite perfect. You please me, delicious Khu-Neferu, lovely Khu. I shall indeed continue. You relieve my mind of its burdens. Your surrender pleases me greatly. I step back and lay into the scourge, harder and more thoroughly this time. His skin is reddening nicely. He seems to leap and shudder the most when it strikes his buttocks, or the back of his thighs. A bit faster, and more force. I allow myself to release my annoyance at the day, to send it into the beat of the scourge against the skin. He can encompass it; he's strong enough to take that on for me. Each little incident fades in the smooth strokes. A diplomatic tangle. Slap, and it's gone. The revelation of a spy among the servants. Another bright thwack, and it seems utterly unimportant. Soldiers and horses, food and fire, all disappear under the hot swing of the scourge, the satisfying sound of it striking his skin. He is moaning now, but not in pain. He is deep in trance, beyond arousal, into that world I envy, the world of pure sensation without thought or worry. I let it all go, bringing the scourge round over and over until I forget everything, my name, my position, my duties. Only this hot skin, this repetition of a dance. He is moaning, crying out, infused with trance and pleasure and heat. He is in strange territory, overwhelmed. I pause, and then take the scourge up to a peak, harder than ever. Slow, incredibly powerful, so that his whole body leaps in his bonds, his knuckles white on the ropes. Then I stop for a moment and go to him. He is breathing deeply, eyes closed, deep in a trance. I run my hand gently up his spine and he shudders. I whisper into his ear, What's your name? My Lady Basti, he says. Khu-Neferu. Yours. Yours my lady, your Khu. My name is yours. Oh my lovely one yes, I say. Perfect. You please me greatly. He is very nearly weeping, gasping with sensation and desire and purely focused on his joy at my approval. He's trembling and I need to let him rest for a moment. Let go of the ropes now, I say. You may kneel and rest. He slides down the wall, shaking, breathing hard. I would like to soothe him myself; sometime soon when I have established my dominance more firmly I will be able to indulge him this way, but right now it is too soon to coddle him, much as I would like to. I pull the rope to summon the two little wide-eyed slaves I keep near the door at night. They have seen a great deal, and I trust them implicitly. As deafmutes, they had been doomed to a life of begging until I took them in and taught them how to serve me. To them I am a goddess and they would die for me, unhesitatingly. And I would most certainly kill for them. Ask and Embla enter, and bow. They spot Khu and need no instructions. I gesture, and they help him to his feet and walk him to the cushions. Embla pets him and rubs salve into his back, not for the injuries which are minimal, but because he deserves this sweetness and indulgence after the scourging. Ask brings water, a bit of cheese and bread, and Khu eats and drinks, coming back into his body. His eyes are filled with wonder and worship as they come back into focus, as he becomes aware of the ministrations, and of my gaze from across the room on my couch. He barely notices Ask and Embla; he can't take his eyes off me now that they've found me. Soon the little slaves fade quietly away, seeing my nod and my smile, and smiling themselves, move back to wait outside the door. They watch, wakeful, all night every night, for my call. In return, they are my most pampered pets, sleeping in my bed through the day while I am away, coddled in every respect. And I turn my attention to Khu, now recovered, kneeling on the cushions, watching me with adoration from underneath his lowered gaze. Hoping I won't catch him looking directly at me. but I can find no other fault with him at this moment and I must have some excuse to be stern. It is almost impossible to disguise my hunger to experience his body's ranges. I rise and walk slowly toward him. You're looking at me, aren't you? Yes, My lady, I cannot lie. I was. Please forgive me. I shall, perhaps, if you continue to please me. I am certainly not finished with you tonight. His shudder is gratifying -- he is more excited than frightened, but it is true he does not know me, and has only heard rumors, perhaps, and exaggerated ones no doubt. What were you taught about how to beg for forgiveness? I say. Show me what they told you. They did train him properly, after all. he remembers, and immediately comes forward off the cushions, crawling toward me and then lowering his forehead to the floor, reaching out his right hand to touch the tip of my boot. I beg, you, My Lady Basti, for mercy. My transgression was inexcusable, but I beseech you for forgiveness. Your every desire is my own. I am nothing unless I please you. He sounds genuinely frightened, but truly sincere. I wonder what he's heard about me. The Blood Princess, that's what they used to call me. I heard it whispered, and once or twice I managed to beat it out of a new bedroom slave, that nickname that I honestly didn't mind and certainly, at least when I was younger, rather deserved. Niankhaset, my old unflappable tutor who taught me more than anyone suspected outside the chamber where we played, would chide me when I played cruelly with one of the slaves. Basteti, my nectar, if you break the toys you won't have them to play with any more. At 14, at 19, though, I knew I had as many toys as my heart could wish, and didn't particularly care to see any of them more than once. So what if their scars kept them from household duty for a week or two? They would no doubt be grateful for the respite, and I knew for a fact that some of them rather overplayed their injuries, hoping to get out of the work for a few extra days. Hence my reputation, only partly deserved. I never killed, nor permanently maimed, any of them, though to hear the rumors I had tortured and dispached countless slaves over the years, especially during those years when Father was alive and I had no duties past being decorated and trotted out at every banquet, the promise of my eventual slavery as a wife being dangled in front of every visiting dignitary, fat pasty things three times my age who would leer at me over their greasy roast peacock. And Father would turn a blind eye to the ways I worked out my rage with a succession of slaves... Too soon all that luxury ended; too soon the upheaval that forced me into the real spilling of blood, not in the bedchamber but in the courtroom where my father's assassinated body lay, still warm... More than charm, more than language and singing had Niankhaset taught me. The ways of sword, too, and knife, the roll and thrust of spearplay, and the subtleties of herbs used to heal or kill, so that I was ready when the time came to dispatch every traitor who thought that with Father gone, their way to the throne was clear. They thought me cruel, simple, self-absorbed and easily distracted. How wrong they were. Their names have been destroyed and their bodies scattered by birds. Perhaps the fear in this slave's eyes is not unjustified, I thought, idly gazing down at his prostrate form, still stretched to touch the tip of my boot, still trembling in suspense. You heard rumors of me, did you not? When they told you where you were being sent, you heard me spoken of? You heard what has happened to others who have entered this chamber? I... I have been told of you, My Lady. And what have you been told? He is hesitant. He is afraid to anger me. The truth, I say. You may speak. There will be no recrimination for the truth. They call you the Blood Princess, my Lady. They say you have killed. They say your desires are... powerful and strange. And do you believe them? Truly, my Lady Basti, I believe nothing I have heard of someone unless I have seen it myself. Perhaps your people have the wisdom they are rumored to have after all. But indeed, my strong little pet, my desires are quite powerful. If they are your desires too, then we shall find ourselves quite in harmony. If not, well, there is no shame in kitchen work... His face is still to the floor, his hand still on my boot, but he tenses visibly. No, my Lady, I beg of you. Test me, try me, but do not send me away. I fear no work however lowly or difficult, but I would do anything for the privilege of your presence. I am yours, and my skills, my body and mind, are yours to command. Please, My Lady, I beg with all my soul, let me stay. Your people are also as silver-tongued as they say. I shall not dismiss you yet. I believe you may be a most pleasant diversion. I leave him there, prostrate on the floor, for the moment. It is convenient for the things I wish to find out about him next. Always, Lady Basti Ch. 02 When I was young, I was an axe - bloody, yes, and dangerous, but without subtlety. Even during the times before I was a leader, when I was merely my father's bargaining tool, a decorative toy, I ruled my own bedroom and my slaves with force and cruelty. My wise old tutor would sigh, understanding my anger but trying vainly to teach me that being feared and hated was only part of what rulership required. I hadn't the patience then to understand what he meant. My father's murder had tempered and shaped me, and I had learned the finer arts of rulership, things too subtle for a younger mind. No longer an axe, I was now a slim dagger, swift, silent and sharp, and far more dangerous. How interesting it is not to force them to submit, as I once did. How fascinating to work instead with the mind and body, to sculpt and tempt those desires into being. And how much further they were capable of going into surrender, into that hypnosis which made them prophetic, angelic, and truly loyal, loyal enough to kill or die for me. How devoted they became, and how, truthfully, devoted I was to them. Rule through love if possible, fear if necessary, Niankhaset used to say. How true, both in the populace and here, here in the chamber where I could make a slave lose consciousness from pain and pleasure and awaken ready to place his life in my hands. I trace a finger down my new toy's spine, slow and sharp. His back arches and he shudders; he is shaking all over. My fingernail continues down, a pinpoint line over the whole length of the valley, lingering there over the dark gate, and then to cup the fruit, stroke his phallus, and back again. He moans. There is such desire here. I trace back and linger at the dark gate, pressing slightly. His cock leaps and I can tell by his breath he is nearly senseless with arousal, with anticipation. He is discovering a whole new set of sensations, deep and powerful and strange. I pull the rope and Ask and Embla enter silently. I gesture toward the weapons chest, and they understand. Embla brings a shapely bottle of new olive oil and sets it on a tray. Ask takes the rolled brocade from under the weapons, and brings it to me. They stand together, asking with their gazes for my next wish. I nod, and they know what to do. Sweet little Embla moves to his head and kneels carefully in front of him, lifting his head to rest on her thighs. He inhales deeply, confused and hypnotized by her scent and her soft skin. Before he can think too much, Embla leans forward, gently but firmly trapping his head there between her thighs. She presses her palms onto his head, and he relaxes at the sweet firmness, letting his head be held down without resistance. Ask kneels behind her and takes hold of Khu's wrists, pressing them down. Suddenly Khu realizes what has happened. His body tenses completely; though I cannot see his face I know there are many expressions shifting over it at this moment. Ask's firm grip has translated; Khu realizes he cannot move. Many would struggle, or kick, or writhe, but this one is different. He spoke the truth when he protested that he belonged to me already, body and mind. He is trembling all over, but in fact his only motion is to arch his back even further, and to draw his knees wider apart. I cannot even bear to try to frighten him now; I am surging suddenly with deep hunger. This one is sweet, and wants me, wants me. I unroll the brocade and select a small wand, smooth lapis and no bigger than my thumb, carved with a rounded spiral along its length. I uncap the oil and pour it directly onto his tailbone, so that it runs cool down the length of his valley and drips down his thighs and cock. His whole body rocks with the sensation of it. I draw the lapis lengthwise, and then set the tip of it against him, pressing just slightly. He doesn't rock forward as some do, trying to escape the sensation. He actually starts to move backwards, onto the wand. Then he catches himself, too late. I did not say you could move, slave. His voice is muffled, and his hands clench and unclench against the carpets. My deepest apologies, My Lady. Oh please forgive me, oh please... But I have already gotten up and found the horse crop. Truth be told, I would have anyway; he is far too aroused already and must be spread out if I'm to have him at my whim for more than a moment or two... His sentence is interrupted; he cries out as the crop strikes him. Once, twice... then I wait. I gesture to Embla and she reaches forward. I cannot see, but I know what she is doing, since I trained her. Her slim fingers have found his nipples and gripped them, hard enough that he jumps and gasps. Now, I say, perhaps you will not find any reason to move without permission. Yes, My Lady, he says, almost moaning. His head is swimming with new sensations. The crop, the pain in his nipples, everything is becoming pleasure now, everything translates into desire and his mind is dwindling to a single idea, only the thought of me, of where I may send him and what I may do next. I can't bear to crop him any more, although I should. It is too tempting, the little wand lying there, and I pick it up and press it in again, this time slightly inward. He moans. It is taking all of his considerable strength to hold still. I reach down with my other hand to fondle him. His voice rises further. Already the juice drips from the tip of his cock. He's too close; I must not touch him at all. I slide the wand, slowly, further, in one long and complete motion, and begin to move it, slow, quick, nine shallow and one deep the way Nia taught me, and I get caught up in the rhythm. Khu is groaning and cannot help spreading his knees even further apart. I take the wand away, without warning, and leave him trembling there, desperate. He is mad to know what I will do, but he cannot see or move. Ask still holds his wrists in a powerful grip, and Embla's fingers imprison his nipples as her thighs imprison his head. They are both small and lovely, but they are very strong indeed. They love this play, and I notice that they are both whimpering a bit, looking up at me in mute petition as I pause, the tip of the lapis wand still trembling, a finger's width inside the juicy opening. I know what they want, and I also know that it will raise the energy of this new slave to see them play and know the singular freedom they experience with me. I smile at Embla, whose sweet breasts are framed in a loose harness of gold chain. She bows her head and lowers her eyes in gratitude, and then lifts her hips up, just a bit, so that Ask, kneeling behind her, can slide his cock into her. Neither of them loosens the grip they have on Khu, but he can now see, his head still trapped between Embla's thighs, Ask's thick phallus sliding slowly into her lotus. His body tenses with hunger, and I slide the lapis wand back into him, deep and steady. Let him associate this sensation with pleasure of all sorts and he will always hunger for it... I take him, assaulting him with the wand, over and over. Ask's hands press down on his wrists, holding him firmly down, and he is forced to watch as only fingerwidths from his face the thick phallus slides rhythmically in and out of Embla's bright, sweet lotus, now dripping with honey. How he must long to taste it, how maddening that scent must be, that vision so close and yet untouchable. Khu's cock is hard as stone, leaping with hunger, on the edge of climax even without being touched, just from the vision he has and the sensation of the phallus thrusting deeply into him. He is in uncharted territory now, so far beyond the sexual sensations he knew before this... Embla's face begs me for release. They are my complete slaves in every way, never daring to climax without my permission. I smile at her but shake my head. Not yet, little one, not yet, but don't worry. I will not leave you hungry forever, my sweetest pet. She understands my look, and her body trembles with the effort she makes to hold herself away from the peak. I do not want to satisfy Khu with even the portrait of satisfaction. Not just yet. Both Ask and Embla are moaning and cooing with pleasure. Mute they may be, but their voices are real, and sweet... Every one of Khu's senses is enslaved at this moment - his tongue desperate to taste the juice that drips just out of its reach, his nose assaulted by the earth fragrance of their joining, his eyes locked on that lovely union of lotus and wand, his ears hearing only their moans and his own, his body entranced by the swift and determined slide of the wand into him. I want my voice to be part of this hypnotism. Lovely Khu-Neferu, I hiss at him, you are mine, you see, as they are. You belong completely to me. I will assault every part of you, and there will be no moment at which you do not think of me, speak my name, worship me wherever I am. I hold your pain and ecstasy in my hand, I hold your life and your death, and I hold this... And I quicken and deepen the wand, making him cry out with hunger and rage and pleasure. He cannot climax from this alone, not yet, but if I let even a feather touch his phallus at this moment he would rise in a heartbeat and spill his seed. Perhaps there is still some belief in him that I will have mercy, that I will let him be satisfied tonight. And I have so much hunger to do so, to see his face as he takes that edge and scales the peak, to hear his complete surrender. But that is not the way I have learned to enslave both body and mind, and I force myself to be patient. I draw the wand away and he gasps with hunger. I gesture to Ask and Embla to be still. They have learned my little hand signals, over time, and it is not just because of deafness that this has become convenient. They can, in fact, read spoken speech, which makes them ideal and indispensable spies for me. But in a moment like this it is best for Khu to hear nothing but my whispered commands in his own ear. My little pets hold perfectly still, still joined, trembling with desire. Ask's grip tightens on Khu's wrists - perhaps he channels his frustration at being told he cannot satisfy himself just yet. I stand slowly, stretching to loosen my muscles from the crouch. There are still some things I must test in this new slave. He is a gift from a rival, and Nehebka's reputation for subterfuge is widely known. It would not be unheard of for her - or for me, for that matter - to indulge in tricks during this negotiation. It's so common a practice that there's a name for it - giving a Gilded Asp. A gift, a tribute to a rival with whom you are in negotiations, a gift with hidden poison. And a slave like my lovely Khu was the perfect Gilded Asp - appealing, seemingly cooperative, but trained as an assassin or a spy, ready to turn and bite me the moment I let my guard down. For my part, knowing that Nehebka had no reason to trust me, I chose a gift that was clearly an asp, but one that would appeal to her. My spies had informed me that her tastes ranged to women, and to bedroom slaves who were not easily tamed. She had a reputation not unlike my own, though I believe hers was more deserved. My solution was to gift her with a slave in whom there was no question of false loyalty - a new acquisition from the north, a lovely but wild, feral young woman who spoke nothing but curses in her own guttural tongue, who strained at her bonds and spat at her keepers and ignored the lashes she got in response. Nehebka would take great joy in taming this one, with her pale skin, pale eyes, her hair the color of sand. And it was a perfect way to avoid any possibility of mistrust between us, since there was no question of this little slave's desire to kill anyone who came close enough for her sharp little claws to find purchase. Nehebka had seemed genuinely pleased by the gift - - but did I sense something in her face as she had presented me with Khu, so well-trained and seemingly tractable? I knew her, knew what she was capable of... He is too appealing, too lovely, and entirely too willing. I suspect a gilded asp, and I am determined to let him know that however fond of him I may seem, however much I lust after his fine strong form, he is nothing I trust... and I can anticipate every trick he might have. From the chest I draw my favorite blade - a flint knife with a carved ivory handle, inherited from my father after his assassination. This very blade had been bathed with the hot blood of his assassins, in the nights that followed his death. How vulnerable those men had been, seduced by my seeming innocence and fear, my desperate willingness to please their bodies and make their alliance as they fought like vultures over the remnants of his kingdom... I had delighted in killing them as the seed they had squirted was still warm on my skin... Then, yes, I had truly been the Blood Princess, bathing myself in blood and juice, the last fluids those men would ever generate... Now, though, to a purpose much more subtle. I take up a rough rope and stand across the room. Khu trembles, still on his hands and knees, still trapped by Embla's pale thighs. Stand up, Khu, I command, and Ask sees my command and releases his grip on Khu's wrists. My pets wait silently, still joined, still hungry. Later, dear ones. I will not forget you. Go to my bed and rest, and wait. They uncoil, separate, and climb silently onto the bed, curling together there like patient cats to await my desires. Their eyes follow my every move. They know me well, and they know that I will be especially determined to test this new toy. Other men may not have had the strength to stand, after what Khu has been through. But I need to test his strength, and I offer him no assistance. His body shakes with the effort, but he is strong, very strong, this one. He stands properly, hands behind him, head bowed, and shows little sign of his exhaustion or his arousal, save that lovely phallus, now a deep scarlet and still powerfully hard. His legs are slightly apart to give him a stronger stance, and he sways almost imperceptibly. He doesn't dare look at my face but I know that he can see the rope and blade in my hands as I move toward him, because his body stiffens in suspense. I set the blade down on the floor, partly to free my hands, but also to test him - if he is an assassin, he may try to lunge for it, and that will mean his instant death. But he does not move. His breathing quickens - perhaps he is considering it, or perhaps he is simply fearful of my next action, given what he has heard of me. He may think I'm going to bind his hands or feet with this rough rope, or perhaps that I will strangle him, but instead I move suddenly to take hold of his cock, and he gasps in surprise - and hunger. Roughly, randomly, I wrap the length of rope around his organs, tightening it with knots here and there. First phallus and scrotum, and a hard knot at the top, then another wrap with a knot at the bottom. A groan escapes him and I pause, allowing him to think I will punish him for the noise. He quickly controls his breathing and becomes still again. Then I wrap a spiral around his shaft, with both ends of the rope, and a knot just under the head of his phallus. I am being deliberately desultory about my work, tying him as one would casually leash a goat, and I tug purposefully on the cord, making his phallus leap and throb, making him wince, more out of fear than discomfort. Now the purple head of his shaft juts out from its sheath of rope. I do love that look - somehow it makes a phallus seem stronger, more powerful, to be wound in thick cords this way. And it assures that it will be more difficult for him to accidentally climax. Mine, I hiss again in his ear. Mine to do with exactly as I like. Mine to take, if I choose, mine to remove, or mine to please... And I stroke the exposed head of it, smoothly, cupping and then roughly squeezing his scrotum with my other hand. He groans, gritting his teeth. He is again close to the peak, just from the touch of the rope and my hands. And he is frightened as well - he has not lost track of the idea that the flint blade lies on the floor within my reach. I slap his phallus, once, twice, and then a third time very hard. Now he cannot control his voice - the combination of fear, pleasure and sharp pain is sending him into new places, new ideas about sensation. He exclaims something in his own guttural tongue, some involuntary curse... What was that? I ask. What did you say? Forgive me please, My Lady, forgive me, I did not mean to speak. He knows better than to defend himself, and lowers his head even further, unsure about whether he should kneel again and beg me for mercy. I will forgive the error, perhaps, if you tell me the truth. What did you say, what did it mean? It must have been a curse, since he is reluctant to tell me. Say it again, I command. He pronounces something, softly, with a certain embarrassment. It is indeed the word he used - though the sounds are strange I can tell they are the same. His native tongue is sibilant, full of odd breathy consonants. Sheeaw-nogh - the last sound almost swallowed, a choked breath in the back of the throat. I try to pronounce it and cannot. What does it mean? He is silent. His breath is rapid - he dares not lie to me; he knows I am the sort of person who knows when she is being lied to. What does it MEAN, slave? I slap his phallus, hard. Tell me the truth. It is difficult to translate, he says. It means...wolf. I know better than that. It is a curse word, a slang term, and I intend to know its full meaning. Secretly, I am not displeased. In my position one learns to take those sorts of curses as compliments, and even to take pleasure in them. They imply that I am being effective... It means a great deal more than that, I say. Tell me what it MEANS. I know better than to try to force it out of him with pain or threats - he is too strong and could easily resist me. But a slow, agonizing circular stroke around the head of his bound phallus, making him grit his teeth and moan again, is a torturous incentive. Between gasps, between moans, he explains, and I know it is the truth. Wolf, he says, female wolf...ahhhh... it means...uhnngggg... a woman..... a c c-cruel... woman... O, my Lady, I beg you.... We have a similar word, one I am very familiar with. Strangely, it also is based on an animal, a female jackal. And it is often used for women such as myself, or Nehebka. A powerful woman, an evil woman... Bemused, I consider how alike we all are, however far apart our language or our ways. We observe the wolves, the jackal mothers, fighting for their young, yes, but also fighting just to fight, just to draw blood... And we see how similar they are to the powerful women. The rulers. The bitches. Secretly, I love that I have inspired him to break down so quickly and show his true colors, his will, his resistance. But I must punish such a strong transgression, and demonstrate that there is no purpose in resisting me, and that whatever remains of the Gilded Asp in him will be killed, decisively, without remorse. You dare call me that? I say. And I pick up the blade. Always, Lady Basti Ch. 03 The blade is only sharpened, truly sharpened to a razor edge, on one side. But he does not know that. I move close to him and then suddenly wind myself around him, smoothing my thigh over his erect cock and draping my arms like snakes around his shoulders. He is tall, but so am I. I purr into his ear, and slowly bring the blade point down against his back, pressing in just enough for him to feel it. You are right, I say softly into his ear. I am sheaw-nogh. A bitch. And now you'll understand just how much. I draw the blade down the center of his back in a sinuous line, still curving one thigh around his leg, his cock sliding, still bound in the rope, between my legs. I use the flat edge, so that he can feel a sharp sting but it will not draw blood at all. He thinks it has, though, and the cold line it leaves tingling on his flesh will feel just enough like a trickle, for a moment. He cannot help but suck in his breath. Yes, slave, I will do exactly as I like with you. Remember that. I do not trust you, I do not love you, and I hold your fate – and I take his cock firmly in my other hand – in my hands. And I'll show you what happens to those who gain my trust and then betray it. I bring the blade round to his chest, and this time I am using the sharpened edge. I trace a fast, simple, lovely line that curves gracefully across his left breast, ending near his heart. It does leave a mark this time. A line so thin that it does not immediately bleed. I am very skilled with the knife, even when I am distracted by the sensation of a thick phallus, bound with layers of rough rope, throbbing in my hand. Watch now, I say to him. Look. Now, only now, the hair-thin red line begins to squeeze out a brighter red, and thickens, widening the line to an obvious cut. It is a test of the sharpness of the blade and the skill of the wielder, how long it takes the blood to bead. If there are no variations in depth or speed, the blood will spread straight out, at least for a while. He cannot help it, he watches the blood emerge, fascinated. It is, truly, beautiful. And terrifying. He realizes what a light touch I used just then, and thinks again about the line he can still feel on his back. But I have other ideas now, and I unwind myself from him suddenly. Ask and Embla look up from their coiled trance. I have surprised them. I go to the door and speak a command to the guard outside. He barks an order. While I wait I move back toward Khu and with one hand I lay the blade flat against his chest, so that he feels the solid cold of it. My other hand toys, almost casually, with his cock. You must understand, slave, I say to him, that I do not forget. Neither love nor hatred do I forget. And the times when I am angry are the times my mind works at its peak. Just then the door opens, and a man is shoved roughly into the room. He stumbles, since the ropes give him very little freedom to move. He is bound roughly, artlessly and completely. I allow my eager new soldiers to do it when it needs to be done. My hands never touch him. Not any more. That One, I say to Khu, does not have a name. I have taken it away from him. I love him deeply, and dearly, and so his ba and his ka will remain with him for the moment, since I still have hope for him in this life. But he chose wrongly, a long time ago, and he had so gained my love and trust that it pained me deeply when he betrayed me. I do not bear gracefully that sort of needless and idiotic pain. True pain is necessary and a pleasure. That is a different thing. That One caused me pain, after I had done nothing but good for him. That One spits on the floor. Embla, looking shocked, runs to find a cleaning cloth. Ask rises angrily and whips the a gag from a low chest in the corner. He ties the rag through That One's teeth and winds it round thickly. He looks at me questioningly. He would like to strike That One for his insolence. I smile gently, and shake my head. No gag. That One must always be allowed the freedom to speak. Ask reluctantly unwinds the gag and stands to the side, glaring at That One venomously. Ask and Embla do not understand my tolerance of That One's behavior. I do not expect them to. Striking That One will not teach him anything. It will not help him understand. I let him live, and I try to show him the way to redemption. And if I do so with a certain cruelty, well, that is the anger. That is the pain. In the next life, if not this one, perhaps he will not repeat his mistakes. This will be an object lesson for Khu. One that I will enjoy, and one that I did not expect to give him so soon. I nod to Ask and he brings a small stool for That One to sit on. I can tell That One does not understand why I have brought him here. I have primarily ignored him for years, allowing him to live and work with the kitchen slaves. He was once my most trusted retainer. A long time ago. He was far more than that, as well. But I am quite sure that over the years That One has not forgotten what we had, and what might have been, if he had not made that one selfish choice, that one mistake in choosing to hate me. He chose hate over love. He could choose differently, at any time, and all would be forgotten. He knows this. For the first three years, I sent a messenger to him every day, with the single question, which was: Will you speak? Every day, he answered with silence. After three years I sent the messenger once a week. Now it is a ceremony, once a month on the full moon. He refuses still this simple gesture. And thus he brings himself to this place, bound now to a low chair, comfortable but about to be in terrible, terrible pain. Without a single touch from my hand. Khu is afraid, and I will not tell him that now, only now, he needn't be. For the sake of That One, he will have a much pleasanter time than the one he might deserve. Watch, slave. Watch carefully. I advance on That One, the sharp blade balanced lightly in my hand. He knows this blade well. It has made sweet and beautiful red lines on his own skin, so thin that they would heal without a mark. He has begged me to leave marks, and I have done that too. He carries, because he requested it, my name on his back. It is the only name he has left, I hold the blade up to him and I hear a shift and whimper on the bed. Embla loves the blade, loves the cool edge, loves to be marked as mine. She is fiercely jealous at the idea that I might use it on That One. I look sideways at Embla, and her face is petulant, pleading. She tries not to be contrary, but the envy overwhelms her. I move closer to That One, flipping the blade in my hand, and I lick the edge, looking him deeply in the eye. As much as he would like to present nothing but disdain, I can see his breath quicken, and his cock rises. Oh yes, he remembers. I linger there, enough to allow him to believe, to allow Ask and Embla to believe, that I may actually touch him with the edge, carve myself into his flesh as I once did, when our blood flowed together both in battle and love, when the touch of the blade meant unimaginable ecstasy to him. And then I turn my face to Embla, and I smile. With a coo of pure ecstasy, she leaps off the bed and kneels in front of me, stroking my feet and calves in little trembling movements, so aroused her hips move involuntarily. That One's eyes flash. I have surprised him, and pained him greatly. Good. Then this will do even more. I raise Embla up, and stroke her skin everywhere, pinching her dusky little nipples, tickling her nether flower, setting her high up on my thigh, to ride it with her desperately juicy lotus, and she winds her arms around me, caressing my back. With one arm I clasp her firmly round her waist, so that she can bend back, arching herself away from me, to expose her lovely round breasts. When I lower the blade tip onto her skin, I pause and look first at Khu. His eyes are wide. He cannot fathom Embla's ecstatic response. Her little wet lotus moves rhythmically against my thigh, and it is a dance, as I hold her tightly and rock her back and forth. She is already close to her peak, just at the idea of what will happen. I flip the blade round in my hand, and wet my finger between my lips, so that I can trace a cool line with my fingertip, round her nipples, up the center of her chest. She gasps, and her spine trembles against my arm. I watch That One out of the corner of my eye, pretending to ignore him, though we are only an arm's length away from where he is bound. Then, to make it sweeter still, I motion to Ask. He comes to me, and I nod at Embla. He stands behind her, supporting her as she bends deeply backward, completely receptive to my touch. With my free hand I can now stroke down, and find my way between her legs, where I slide fingers inside her, probing and smoothing my way in to that hot, pulsing tunnel. It is desperate for me to be inside it, and I thrust up, again and again, making her coo and moan in complete surrender. That One is trying to keep his eyes closed, but he cannot help but watch. No matter. He can hear, and he knows what is about to happen, since it has happened to him. I take her, now, take her up and over, circling my thumb on her little key, so that she begins to tremble, and when her voice leaps up and I hear the familiar sounds of her peak, I dip the knifeblade down onto her chest and with precise and looping curves I draw the glyphs of my own name across her supple flesh, quick and graceful as a serpent. The sharp pain sends her higher than her climax ever could, blending with the throbbing explosion in her hips, mixing to create an explosion of surrender in her mind. I say my name to her as I mark it into her flesh, say my name, over and over again. If she could speak, she would say it too, but her voice makes a name for me nonetheless, with a sweet cry of pure agony, owned in every way by my hands. I smile at Ask, and he knows what to do. He bends her toward me and enters her, thrusting deeply, while I hold her against my chest. The blood that only now begins to trickle from the cuts smears across my skin, and her howls of pleasure are muffled against my breasts. She stays at the peak, and stays and stays, and I cup her chin in my hand and turn her face up to look at mine. Her hysterical gaze fixes on me, only me, and her eyes meet mine in pure and divine worship, and I say my name to her, gently, over and over again. If she could speak she would sing my name, but only her smooth, wild sounds, without shape, can name me. She is entirely, utterly mine; I am her universe, the giver of all pleasure, the deity of love, consuming her heart. Ask takes her to peak after peak, but I do not want him to lose his own essence just yet. I have other plans for it. Eventually, when Embla is limp and trembling in my arms, I coo to her, speaking her own name in her ear until tears of gratitude stream from her eyes, and she leans heavily back against Ask. I nod, and he draws reluctantly out of her and helps her over to the bed, where they coil back into their inseparable weave of limbs. She dabs proudly, if limply, at the blood on her chest. I can tell she is a little discontented that it was not deeper; it will be healed within a few days and will leave no mark. But the lines of red against her skin, smeared as they are, look very frightening to Khu, who does not understand how shallow they truly are. The important part is the effect it has had upon That One to witness this scene. Oh yes, he remembers. As if it were yesterday, he remembers a similar ecstasy, a similar pride in the scars he wore for days. The satiety that Embla now feels is familiar to him, deeply familiar, and the hardness of his cock betrays him, regardless of how he tries to manage the look on his face. It is time to turn my attention back to Khu, for a moment. I have decided that his education will be very thorough tonight, that he is bright enough to begin to understand my mind. He has great potential, and he will make far more than a slave if I manage him correctly at this stage. It is better to be loved than feared, but it is best to be both. Both in equal and intense measure. That One did not fear me quite as much as he loved me, and in that was his mistake. On this night, after years of waiting, I have suddenly decided that I have waited long enough. He will not speak; he sees this as a battle of wills and does not understand what he loses in order to win. There is nothing to be done here, and I know this, but I cannot resist offering him one final opportunity for redemption, or perhaps one last chance to hurt him for the way he hurt me. I turn to him, and for the first time in years I look him in the eye. He understands this moment, looking back at me. I could give him back his name, his tribe, his family, his eternal life. I could grant it in an instant, and I require only that he say my name. No abject apology, no humility, no surrender but the powerful gesture of saying my name. It has always been this way; for years, I have asked only that, and for years he has refused. Once a month he has heard this question, since these days it has been relegated to the ceremonial. No one believes it will actually change, but I sent the soldier, every moon cycle, to ask, regardless. Now, for the first time in years, I ask it myself. Will you speak? The pain, the sheer agony which greets me as he raises his eyes, nearly knocks me over. I cannot understand why he wills himself away from love, away from everything he has claimed to value. I will never understand this instinct, to alienate himself from that which is most valuable to him. But looking in his eyes, I know already that he will refuse. And I know how angry that makes me. He remains silent. His hands clench against the edge of the chair. And he causes himself more pain with this choice than I can ever cause him. But I will try. One final time. And Khu will help me. That One's eyes harden, and I know the answer. He has officially given it now, and now I take it as a license to take my anger out, quite thoroughly, upon him, before the end. The end for this life. In a way, a lush night unfolds before me now because of That One. Instead of training a new slave, I am exposing Khu to the consequences of disloyalty, of the refusal of my love and patronage. I believe he will learn, but in the meantime he will learn to love me in ways he has not imagined he could love. Ask and Embla have finally understood my goal, and they wait excitedly for my next choice. They do not have the nostalgic fondness that I hold for That One; they witnessed the betrayal with their own eyes, witnessed the pain it caused me, and have begged, with their silent eyes, many times for the privilege of dispatching That One from this life, without a name, without redemption. I have always stopped them. I consider the possibility of allowing them to kill him tonight, the way they have begged me to do. But they do not entirely understand. The hell of living is far worse, sometimes, than the hell of death. My father taught me that, and Niankhaset taught me the same, in his way. I show him, the rest of the night, all the things he remembers, wishes for, dreams of. And he sits, bound to the low stool, forced to witness, mute, stubborn to the point of death. And what I show to him is this. Ask knows well how to be a throne for me, and what I truly want. I motion to him, and suddenly he, as well as Embla, understand my intent for the rest of the night. They see that I am taking That One back, back to the days when we loved with a fierce joy that surpassed understanding. Ask lays himself back on the low chair, next to the bed, his lovely cock already standing straight. He offers himself as a throne. For the first time since Khu arrived in my room, I begin to disrobe, to show Khu the body that has to this point caused him as much pleasure as pain, even veiled as it has been. I loosen the soft white linen that has bound my breasts at their base, and as it drops free I allow, for just a moment, Khu's eyes to range over my flesh. Despite the battle scars, it is a young, strong body even still, and neither the battles nor the single secret daughter I bore long ago has hurt the look of my flesh too much. I can still stand proudly, clad only with the air, and know that I can make the secret flesh of men swell despite their fear. And now, finally, there is a part of me that demands to be satisfied, that shouts louder than the discipline, the politics, the armies and negotiations, louder even than the pain I feel at That One's betrayal, louder than my desire for one final scene of vengeance. I am hungry, hungry for flesh, for touch, for the final satisfaction. I move gently toward Ask, and I am now unclothed, proud of the way my body still stands the test, proud of my gently rounded belly. My legs, my arms, my breasts, are still young and firm, and my muscles ripple as I straddle the lovely throne that Ask provides for me, seat myself regally onto his thick phallus, and slide down with a sigh. Satisfaction will come to me tonight, and it will outweigh the anger, the bitterness in my heart over what I must do. I take a moment to attend to the sensations, the thick and lovely satisfaction of Ask's warm phallus inside me, eager to move, trembling but motionless except for the heartbeat of his arousal inside me. And I take Khu's eye, lock his gaze to my own. He cannot take his eyes from me; he has never seen such a matter-of-fact joining, such a simple thing as a woman making a cock hard with a glance and then settling herself down upon it with such straightforward desire. I settle myself in, go inward to feel the thick length of this sun-hot wand splitting me open in my most intimate space, invading me. Embla waits quietly next to me, still a bit weakened by the ecstasy of the blade, and I sign to her that she is to bring Khu over to me and force him to kneel. She smiles and moves toward him and her tiny frame radiates sudden mastery, as she holds him fiercely with her gaze and takes hold of the collar he wears. Quite without warning she pulls hard on the collar and rakes her knee behind one of his, so that he is forced down to his knees. His look of shock reveals that he had not thought of her as one of my soldiers until now. No, she is no mere plaything. Lovely as she is, delicate as she seems, she could kill him in half a dozen ways before he even realized what was happening. As quick as a snake she has unwrapped her sash and bound his hands behind his back and joined his forearms together, wrapping the rope in a tight spiral all the way to his elbows. His chest is thrust out and his shoulders widened by the pose. It is a good look. Another length of sash is just as quickly knotted at his collar, and with this lead wrapped tightly round her fist she urges him forward toward me, making him walk awkwardly on his knees. When I held the blade his fear had overwhelmed his desire, and that sensation has stayed with him. But he is not stupid, and he understands enough to know with relative assurance, whether he understands exactly the reasons why my rage is now turned toward this stranger bound against the nearby wall, that he will likely not die tonight. The thought second only to that in his whirling mind is his hunger, the bewildering and overwhelming desire that keeps his cock hard even now, still bound in the rope. When he has approached and his face is only an arms length from me, I say to Embla, Untie his staff. Anoint him. She kneels beside him and begins to slowly unwrap the length of rope from his phallus, artfully precise. His thick staff responds to her stroking hands, and his look reveals that he had nearly forgotten that it was bound. In this single night he has seen so many things that his mind may never have even conceived of, and his body has felt more strange arousal, more hunger, prolonged, foreign, intense hunger, than he has ever dreamed. Always, Lady Basti Ch. 03 And now there is more, as Embla's silken hands stroke oil over his reddened phallus, and in fact everywhere, down the hollows of his thighs and back between them, soothing the buttocks still reddened by my flogging. Her quick little fingers find their sharp way inside him, stroking the oil generously into his opening. His eyes widen in surprise, perhaps at the matter-of-fact way she goes about this intimacy. Everywhere, her hands make his skin gleam with oil. There is that sensation, and there is the fact that he cannot take his eyes away from the sight of my lotus, widened so sweetly around the thick shaft that enthrones me. He can see every part of the joining, the way the scarlet skin of Ask's phallus divides me and disappears between the drenched and delicate lips of my lotus. He is close enough to see the slight movements, the muscles tensing as Ask moves, just slightly, back and forth, shifting the angle he makes within me. It is smooth, meditative, the way we rock almost imperceptibly, subtle as a heartbeat, keeping our arousal at a low hum. Khu is entranced, and overwhelmed, as the flood of sensations continues to fill him. Embla's hands flow over his body, interrupting their silken course with skillful little scratches and pinches, keeping him constantly on edge. Bind his eyes and ears, I tell her. And a blackness and silence descend over him suddenly as Embla ties the linen round him. He nearly cries out when the vision he has been devouring is taken from him without warning. He may still hear some sound, but it is softened, made indistinct by the lengths of thick cloth. He is now a creature of the subtler sensations, of touch and taste and scent alone, without the clamor of the mind to block their voices out. And in this state he feels his phallus wrapped with slickness, hand or mouth he cannot tell but motion that takes him up to the bare and grinding edges of his climax and then forbids him the final satisfaction, again and again. He feels himself leaned forward until his shoulders are stopped and held, and a heady scent fills his nostrils, a deep scent of juice and sweat that comes from the joining of two bodies, or more. He breathes this earthy elixir in as if he could drink it, as if it were the sweetest wine. He feels his nipples being flickered by a tongue, or some warm round thing, and then tortured by pinches that seem to hurt until they somehow connect with the heat building round his cock. His mind is a whirlwind of color and sound as hands smooth round his cock and testicles, and fingers coil back to enter his most secret place, where deep inside they curve to stroke some dark inner organ that sends lightning bolts through the pure center of him, seemingly up through the top of his head. Something thick invades him there, and his body moves despite himself, hungrily driving himself back further on it, as the heat of his ascent moves its focus back, to that space being filled, and filled, turning his mind and body to water. His phallus strains toward teasing hands, and always in his mouth and nose is that maddening scent, one he knows must be the joined organs that were his last vision before the blindfold descended. How his mouth longs to drink that musky wine, his tongue to dive deeply between the swollen, salty folds of satin flesh. It seems as if he will expire if he does not climax, as if his life depends on the taste of this amazing flower he can smell, so close to him and yet not quite close enough. He feels that he will go mad, or simply lose his life, and he struggles against the bonds on his arms, rocking himself back ever more fiercely onto the wand and forward into the teasing, fluttering hands and mouths, a thousand hands, a hundred mouths, upon his solid, yearning cock. It is as if the sensations become a single thing, as if his body were one single organ and not the several parts that strain, each toward its own satisfaction. One thought: the lotus that hovered before him, vivid in his mind, and clearly just out of reach of his agonized mouth. But the hands that work his phallus, the wand that now invades him deeply, rhythmically dividing his body in two, the sting of the bites and twists, the odd security of his bound arms, everything melds into a single desire, for surrender to that final ecstasy. He would kill for it, die for it, exchange anything including life itself, to reach that peak now. And somehow the strange combination of sensations responds to that desperation, and he feels himself going over the edge into ecstasy, brutally shoved there by the wand which impales him in quick, deep thrusts, the mouth which envelops his phallus and draws his seed up with its insistent rhythm, and by the dark scent which hovers and suddenly, fiercely, meets his mouth. His face is pressed forward and down into what can only be those two joined organs, and his tongue and lips find juice dripping like honey from a heavy comb. The taste, the feel of salt petals under his desperate mouth, the way his tongue can trace the border between the shaft which splits the petals open and slides hard into the depths, it seems as if these sensations are what truly send him over that final edge. His body seems to burst apart with howls and juice, and his mouth sucks desperately, inexactly, at that shrine that fills his head with dizzy scarlet. At that moment the fabric is unwrapped from his eyes and ears, but it does not matter, because his vision has disappeared under the far more distinct visions of his ecstasy, the bright flash of the body as it peaks. He hears, as he surrenders to the shuddering waves of heat that envelop his mind and body, my voice in his ear. Say my name, I whisper. Basti, he cries, Basti, o Basti, Goddess. Basti. My Queeeeen... His voice rises to peak after peak, and my name is the only thought in his mind. I grind his face into me, so that the scent of my pleasure will be burned into his memory forever more. I am in every part of him at this moment, the ruler of every pleasurable sensation he has. It is my name on his lips, my scent which covers his face, my will that each thing is happening to him at this moment. When his body finally loosens, I allow him to look up at me, at all of me once more, and then, so that I will be the last vision he has for the night, I nod to Embla and she slips the blindfold onto him, where it will stay til morning. Ask and Embla lead him off to the side room, where he will be bathed and given food before being led back to sleep bound to his pallet across the room. I am through with him now, and for the rest of the evening, in the state he is now in, every hand that touches him will be mine, every thought he has will be of me. My body, my scent, and most importantly, the importance of pleasing me. There is one final task, a terrible and painful one, before I rest tonight. That One is now alone with me in the room. His eyes have followed every move. I can see the tracks of tears down his face. He is ashamed that his hands are bound and he cannot wipe them away. I move toward him, and stand before him, close enough for him to smell the heady mix of juice that still trickles from me. No, for this last moment we must be equals. I tell him to stand. He does so, awkwardly with his hands still bound behind him. Now we look one another in the eye, and there is no one left in the room for him to perform for. Perhaps, with no other limitations, he will finally relinquish his stubborn pride. Will you speak? I ask him, quietly. And I wait. I can see him struggling. There is something in him that knows that this is final, though he doesn't understand why, and doesn't really believe it. Part of him believes that he will always have this battle of wills with me, that he can decide in his own time whether to return. Another proof that he does not know me as well as he believes. But he is silent. I hold his gaze, for what seems like an eternity, and I wait. There must be no mistake, and he must never be able to tell himself that I did not give him every opportunity to relinquish his stubborn pride. And finally, he can meet my eyes no longer. His body is trembling with the strain of silence; it is as if every part of his frame cries out to speak and only his mind remains hardened. He lowers his eyes, and I hear a sigh, almost a sob, come from him, but he does not speak. I turn away and walk to the door. When I open it, the guards outside struggle not to notice that I am unclothed, still covered with sweat and juice. Take him, I tell them. Take him to the edge of the kingdom and release him. A look of genuine surprise crosses the face of the guard master, before he can control it. Let him go, I confirm. Mark his forehead with my sign. And let all be told that if his face is ever seen in my lands again, he is to be killed. There will be a reward of great wealth to the person who brings me his head and hands if he ever comes to this kingdom again. I hear a gasp behind me. I have truly surprised That One. But before he has had time to even consider this new fate, the guards have entered and taken his arms, half-dragging him out of the room. They know who he is and what he has done, and they hold no fondness for him. They also cannot fathom why I haven't had him killed. He will be better off if they kill him before they release him. I hope for his sake that they do. It will be a better life than the one he will now lead. As they drag him through the door he suddenly begins to struggle, as if awakening from a stupor. His limbs flail and the guards are pleased, using this as an excuse to grip him more harshly. Not three steps outside the room, I hear his voice, a voice I have not heard in years. He cries out, Wait! I will speak! I will speak! Basti, Highness, I will speak now! Basti! I am unsurprised, even as my heart breaks at the sound of his screams. I close the door, but can still hear him, calling my name as they drag him away. Over and over, my name, cried out as if it will save his life. It will not. Only moments before, it might have, but not now. And never again. If I ever cried, I would cry at this moment, but my body released its last true tear long ago. I turn, wearily, away from the thick door, closed now forever against this precious companion, and find Ask and Embla waiting for me. They have witnessed this last moment, as has Khu, though he has only heard it, since his eyes remain bound. There is true agony, true pain in the cries that now become faint, and then silent, as he is led out of the palace and out of this life forever. I do not speak, but Ask and Embla understand. Embla binds Khu to his pallet for the night's rest, and then the two of them come to me, embrace me, draw me to the bed and lay me down. I fall into a dreamless sleep while their hands are still bathing and massaging me. Tomorrow will be a challenging day, and I must gather all my strength.