5 comments/ 18857 views/ 0 favorites Psalm of Love By: historymajor This story is based roughly on Psalm 45, a royal wedding song in the Hebrew Scriptures. I have changed some of the translation, to fit this unique context. The king of the world sighed deeply. Perhaps it is a cliché, but the powerful are rarely happy. The king is grateful for his power, the authority he wields. Even Egypt and the bickering Mesopotamian countries acknowledge his primary place among these equals. And he gives praise to the Most High for his rule. That said, his majesty mused, the king is desperately bored. The requirements of his office were innumerable and repetitive. In his younger days, he planned battles and outmaneuvered opponents. He gave wise judgements and counsel. But in these days there are ceremonies galore. There is the weekly group gathered to complain about the taxes. There is the daily offerings. There are daily council meetings. The building projects still fascinate him at the beginning of the process, but once the planning is all done and he just has to wait a decade or so for them to finish. And, of course, for the sake of the office, the king faces the "pleasure" of a new woman almost every night. Or close to it. If he requests a particular one, he could see her... at the most once a week. But every wife wants her "shot" at having a son. Every wife wants her opportunity to tell him what the problems are with the empire from their isolated point of view. Every woman wants him to try the "latest" perfume or oil, all of which are intended to entice him, excite him. Frankly, it is all a bore. He married most of these women just for their political clout. They hold no real interest in him nor he for they. All these women are the same. They must be dressed up by the same stylist, because their clothes and hair have little or no variety. In their limited way, they think that what is "fashionable" to them is interesting to their husband—as if he pays attention to the current fashions. That is the focus of his wives, to maintain and control the fashion trends of the empire. Sexually they are all the same as well. He is required, according to his vows, to grant each woman sexual opportunities. To be fair, then, he needs to see one each night, and that would give them each one opportunity a year for sex. They might use it for their own pleasure, for political purposes, for an opportunity for a child—whatever. But once a year is what they have and that means, in all fairness, that he must be sexual every evening. No breaks—unless he is sick in bed, and even then he has heard a wife complain, "If he is in the bed anyway, why can't we just do what we please. All he has to do is lie there." He moaned. He wished that he could be sick for a week. Or a month. He could really use the break. He sighed again. Best to prepare himself for the next visit. Dull, yes, but necessary. He casts his clothing aside and lies on the bed. Tired. A really long day. Hopefully he will be able to fulfill his duties tonight. For a while he hasn't been able be excited enough to climax—at least without an enormous effort. Mostly on her part. He just isn't interested enough to try, except to get it over with. A chambermaid moves from the corner to straighten the bed. She had been in the room the whole time to take in the king's silent musings and his discarding of clothing. Slaves are there, but are rarely noticed. Most move on so quickly, as well. But he has no time to worry about shyness or shame in front of a lowly servant. He barely notices her. It is the task of a slave to remain unnoticed. He wouldn't have noticed her tonight, if she had just done her job. If she hadn't spoken. He thought he heard her speak. But that couldn't be right. A lowly chambermaid would certainly not speak to the king of the Empire unless asked. Called to. But... there it was again. She spoke again—possibly even repeating what she had just said. That was bold. Too bold. He said, "If the king wishes for a slave to speak, then he would request it. Be not bold to place yourself in honor before a king, lest he smite you and refuse to raise you up again." Servants did not need to be reminded of their station. She was lucky he was too depressed to beat her. Only after his wise counsel did he hear what she said. He sat up. "What did you say?" She bowed before him and stared at the ground. "Your slave asks what my lord is waiting for this night." He stood up and paced around her, interested enough in this anomaly to have forgotten to replace his robe. He walks around her and stares at her more. As is common for slaves, her long black hair is tied back and she is wearing a plain white shrift. Were it not for the bulge at her chest, she would be sexless, invisible. Her hands are behind her back, which is odd, for most slaves keep their hands before them to quickly serve their masters. But the king shakes his head free of these musings. "Say that one more time." She repeats, word for word, what she had just said. He walks around her again, then commands, "Stand up. Be raised before your king." She stands, with her face still bowed. He glances her over and then demands, "Place your hands before you." She hesitates but a moment—"Just as I thought," he murmered, "for what slave would hesitate?"—and reveals her hands to be soft and carefully manicured, with nails that are fashionable for the times. The king smiles, and then frowns. So it is one of his wives. As play, or as a spy? His voice was firm, but not unkind as he commanded, "Let your face be raised before your king, for he has chosen to acknowledge you." As she lifted her head, the king spit out, "Lily! What are you doing? What kind of get up is this?" For, before him is his queen, his first wife, the ruler of his household. He is offended by this appearance. No announcement, no preparation time. And she sat there in the corner as he was thinking about how bored he was by her—by all of them! What if he had mused aloud? That could have easily happened... then what? Political turmoil. In his own household! A mutiny of wives! His council of wise men would certainly have chided him for that. But it was not just the deception, but the clothes she was wearing. Should she have worn the vestments of a queen, she would have worn seven garments—each one indicating the greatness of her rank and marriage. She, the queen of the world. And should she strip before her king and husband, even he would have to wait until every garment is carefully placed by slaves into the hands of another slave, who waited simply to hold the garments of the queen. But today, there were no slaves, no pomp, no waiting. Her single thin garment even had a hole in it—although small and modest. "Completely inappropriate for a woman of your rank! I can't believe you would dress yourself thus. Take that silly costume off, immediately!" Quickly, as a slave who is accustomed to obey rather than think for oneself, she stripped it off, quickly displaying her delicate skin—colored tan, yet lighter than most beauties of the kingdom. Her lines were perfect, ample breasts, but not grotesque, slightly rounded belly, hips meeting her thighs in a perfect line toward her groomed pubic hair. But she is not excited by her exposure. She lowers her eyes before her lord, as she is not allowed to lower her head or bow, as he had commanded her to raise her face. But it is clear that the shame of nudity was resting heavily on her, although he shared the exposure. "It is fine, my dear. We are friends here. Have we not been in this position before?" She stammered as she spoke, "My lord, I have not been here before. I have been bought just recently, from the Ammonites." The king of the world chuckles. "You are no slave girl, my dear one. No slave girl would have so much weight, so great a blessing in fatness." He stroked her belly sweetly. She smiled inwardly at his compliment, basking in the praise of her beauty. And, indeed, if the king fed his people well, no less did he treat his wives. She was not obese—not in any way—but she was plump, at the height of beauty for her people. She was older than most of his women, around 30, but her pregnancies have only increased her loveliness, causing her slender belly some roundness and a fullness to her breasts that she encouraged over the years. Although pleased at his saying, she did not let her joy show on her face, remaining sober. "My master teases his slave. He has seen all the beauty of the world, and the nakedness of a thousand women. Surely his wives grant him greater pleasure than a common slave?" He smiles. At least this night is different. Strange, yes. A queen posing as a slave girl? Unheard of... Perhaps to do so secretly—to discover court secrets, that would be understandable. But to openly present oneself to one's master as a lowly slave? Strange indeed. Who would want to be thought of as lowly? Who would want to be humbled? Almost ... perverse. Well, it is well known that the king desires a little perversity now and then. "Perhaps," he mused aloud, "a common slave could know how to please her king better than all of his wives or sex slaves. Perhaps a common slave is his desire." He leered in her direction. Stoic, she responds, "I know little in the ways of love. The king's wives prepare daily for his pleasure. And the king's sex slaves are trained in the thousand movements of pleasure. I am but a lowly slave. I know nothing of pleasing my king." At this little speech he was surprised again. He is just beginning to accept that a queen might put on a slave's clothes and do the dance of a slave. But surely she is here to please him. Surely she desires another prince in her womb—and the coin for that ransom is his pleasure. Pleasure is something he had been lacking. He does find this comedy to be more interesting than all the oils, perfumes and positioning of the last few months. But to say that she knows nothing... that is beyond comprehension. Never would a woman enter his chamber claim that. Even a lowly slave girl, should she possibly consider herself worthy of his seed, would claim that she was the greatest undiscovered lover the world has ever known. Look at all the women who pranced through this bedroom—all claiming great abilities, even if they left him as soft as a wet blade of grass. As she stood in the middle of the room, shamefully naked, the night breeze hardening her nipples, she continued, "My lord, I am sorry to disturb you so. I do wish I could bring you pleasure. But although I am lacking in the training of love, I do know a song. Perhaps I could please you in this manner." He shifts and considers. This is suspicious. What is she thinking? Not trained in love, she says, but a song. A battle hymn? A praise to Yahweh? He had almost tired of the psalms from his father—he would play such psalms ad nauseum. But a song from the queen... that would be interesting. "Well, slave. If you do not plan to please me with love, then a song would be adequate. You may proceed." He sits at the edge of the bed, comfortable, as if the slight chill meant nothing to his nude skin. He was ready to listen to some diversion. Perhaps a battle poem, then. That would be of interest. "I am inspired to make words in my desire Stirred to speak speech of pleasure." She kneels down before him, bowing in humility. Her back is stretched in front of him as a vast land, waiting for him to take possession. Her dark hair floats upon her skin as foam upon the sea. He touches it, caresses it, and it is compliant to his every move. Below the hair, he notices that she is trembling. Trembling with fear? he wonders. What could his queen possibly be afraid of? Or is she trembling from the desire she speaks of? Perhaps this diversion has more to it than what can be seen on the surface. If she is desiring—what could she want? What is her pleasure? But then again, who can understand a woman? Of all the mysteries the king has revealed, this mystery is beyond his grasp. He listens more carefully... "I speak for my sovereign I act for the king." Still bowed, she shyly touches his feet, caressing them and kissing them. He is strangely moved by her lowliness, her willingness to be humiliated in this way. How could a woman of so high a position lower herself by touching feet? Even a king's foot is shameful to touch. She must truly desire something great. Is she after a portion of his kingdom? It must be something that he would not generally give. She is nervous. And is certainly acting strangely. She moves to sit at his feet and her mouth moves up his legs to his knees, and she rests her breasts on his calves. Her gentle movements stir him and causes his member to stir slightly. But he is more curious than aroused. "I speak quickly, as an administrator." She licks his kneecap. Not seductively, but with deep longing. Her hands go between his knees and gently suggest the spreading apart of his legs. Perhaps her desire is as simple as a night's pleasure. He nods assent to her request, and his legs open wide as he sits on the edge of the bed. Her hands move up his thighs, slowly, and then back down again, and then up, playing a dance of closeness and distance that stirs him even more. Then she touches his penis, caressing it, stroking it and swirling her fingers around it. She moves her body between his legs. He complies by resting his feet under her buttocks, soft and warm. "My tongue moves as the pen of a scholar." Her fingers lift his member up and places it in her mouth. It is still soft, and it fits within her mouth easily. He feels himself surrounded by warm silkiness. Her tongue darts over and around him, stroking his tip repeatedly. Her hands work him as well. She caresses his sack with one hand, gently fondling his balls. Her mouth presses further on his quickly growing shaft, but her tongue does not remain still. She gulps on him, pressing on his organ from all sides. Then she slides the shaft down, out of her mouth, and her other hand rubs her mouth-water into him, stroking him. Then she pulls his sex back into her, slowly, and then pushing him out, her hand and tongue never ceasing its gentle labor upon him. She works her tongue quickly, and shows no hurry to move on to the next stage, to continue in her poem. He remains inside her mouth for many minutes, contemplating in silence, but watching her with wide open eyes. He strokes her hair as her head floats over his lap, and eventually, slowly, his manhood becomes erect, and soon all she has is his tip in her mouth. She lifts off of his sex, but does not retreat from his person and addresses him again. "You are handsome, My Lord." She carefully pushes him back onto the bed, with her breasts resting on his hips, covering his hard member. She strokes his flat stomach and his chest, feeling his hair and lingering at his nipples. She pinches them, gently, and then strokes his stomach again. She notes, pleased, that his nipples are as erect as his shaft. So that he does not lose interest, she strokes her breasts around his swollen penis. She bends her head down and licks the tip and then swallows it up between her mounds of flesh, squeezing them against his sex with her upper arms. Her hands, meanwhile, continue to lightly caress his chest, stroke his nipples, and outline his muscular torso with her finger tips. She carefully lifts herself up higher, releasing his penis from its fleshly prison. Although in the midst of enormous pleasure, he notices that she is directly above him. This, he thought, is not humble. Perhaps her game goes a little too far. Did she feign humility just in order to see her king humbled before her? But he did not want her to stop. This diversion was pleasing. Quite pleasing. "Beauty tumbles from your lips So you are blessed." Her chest rested upon his, and she touches his lips, outlining them with her fingers. Her thumb then strokes their fleshly goodness, as she licks her lips. She leans down and kisses his lips softly, barely touching them. He responds as if to swallow her up. His lips devour hers, he strokes her bodice, and cups her buttocks with his palms, pressing his hands into her flesh. She responds by stroking his face and hair and then by grasping his shoulders. Her wet sex is pressed against his, and his legs open wider and stretch around her thighs. Never has he felt this way. She is not simply the obedient servant, but is taking him and his desire is tight within his chest. She draws closer to him and kisses him deeply upon his neck. His hand strokes her back and presses her breasts tighter against his chest. His penis strains against her rough mound, trembling upon her with pleasure. She licks his neck and moves down to his shoulders and she straightens her arms on either side of him, her torso now tented above him. He strokes her breasts, pressing them together, and then pulls them to his open mouth... but she sits up all the way, escaping his grasp, allowing her ample flesh to rest upon her chest, nipples still raised. She places her thighs on either side of his, with his penis standing at attention before her upon his stomach, awaiting her touch. Looking down on it, she chants, "Your power is mighty! Your weapon rests on your thigh." She rubs his member and then squeezes it, lifting it up. It is tall and magnificent—taller than she had seen it since the early days of her marriage. Harder than the smooth stones the young wives practice with. Thicker than her wrist, usually bejeweled with bracelets. Yes, she thinks, I am doing well—his scepter is raised toward me, to welcome me. His eyes are shut as she strokes him, squeezing his tip between her fingers and stroking his shaft with her other palm. He moans beneath her care, and she hears the desire of her husband, "Wetten me, my love. Let me feel your sweet juices and your squeezing grasp again." He calls me to surround him, to complete him. My time is come. Grasping his shaft, she raises her thighs above him, placing his tip upon her slit and strokes it there, allowing her wetness to cover his tip. Then, quickly, with his body stretched out below her, she rests herself upon him, allowing him to pierce her deeply, as her weight rests upon his pelvis. The king gasps from both pleasure and shock, and he quickly opens his eyes. He sees her above him, eyes shut, basking in her glory. Fury sparks in his heart and grows as realization strikes him. Finally! He knows what she was after the whole time. "So now I know—you did not wish to please your king. You were after your own glory." Her eyes opened quickly, absent of any pleasure, and stared at him in fear. She began to climb off of him, but his continuing erection made this difficult, as she could not move to the side. "You planned in your heart raise yourself upon your king. You thought to rule him on his own bed! To humble him below the wiles of a woman. Never!" She tried raising herself off of him, but to do this, she put her hands on either side of his shoulders. Her breasts hung over him, mocking his lowliness. He pushed her down beside him and stood up on the floor, towering over her, his penis sticking straight out toward her, as if in accusation. Then he roughly grabbed her shoulder and threw her off of the bed to the floor. She gasped in sudden pain, but just as quickly it faded again. He did not harm her, she told herself, yet she held her bruised shoulder and lay there, quietly. Tears came to her eyes, unbidden, as she knew she had been wronged. She had no plans to lord it over her husband and king—rather it was an attempt to make him fertile and loving again. For many months, perhaps years, wives have complained to her that he would not release himself into them. That he lay there and go through the motions of sex, but his lack of interest was overpowering their abilities. This was a national disaster. The king's sexual ability is a treasure, even as the gold guarded by powerful warriors. To have children, sons especially, by the king means the strength of the nation. The more royal sons, the more strength. Although he might find the nightly ritual diverting, the wives knew better—they were providing for the future security of the nation. Psalm of Love And so to please him was significant business. They would tease and please him, build up his manliness and his power over them, but, lately, nothing would come of it. They would try to stir his interest in every way they knew how, but to no avail. So she cooked up this scheme to play the forward slave, to see if his desire could again be stirred. And it was pointless. Instead of renewing his pleasure, she had only insulted him. And yet, his sex is as firm as ever. His vigor has not waned, even a shade, in his anger. Perhaps, just perhaps, this fiasco could be turned to triumph for her and all the wives. Turned away from him, she wiped the wetness around her eyes, and lay on the floor. He noted her humble position, and felt that justice had been done. Then he saw her place her knees under her, and stretch her arms out before her upon the intricate carpet of a multitude of threads, as if she were in supplication to the unseen god. But what god would demand its servant to be in such a shameful position, nude, with ones sex spread out to the air. Her legs were in a strange position—they were open, as if she were a frog squatting on his lily pad. As he stared at her, still furious, but with growing curiosity, he heard her mumble something incoherent. "Again!" he commanded, roughly. With greater clarity of speech, she chanted, "You ride in victory You ride the backs in glory." It was not some unseen god she was bowing before. Rather, she bowed before him, offering her sex to him. She lay before him, her opening like a bird's mouth, ready to take whatever is placed there by the mother. Her combed public hair was now wild with abandon, and her lower part was shaking... no, wiggling. She was teasing him, taunting him to show her his power. As if she were saying, "Try to take this! I dare you to conquer me, to ravish me as you have done so many lands." That was a challenge he could bear. He quickly moved behind her, and squeezed her back at the waist. He placed his penis below her ass, the tip at her vaginal mouth. He wished to force his way in her, cause her pain and so he pushed in roughly —and she did whimper and tremble a bit. But once he had pushed through her wall, she was wet and smooth inside, as if she was enjoying all that had transpired. She was gaining pleasure from his frustration, his humility, his dishonor. He pushed himself within her, and then took the palms of his hands and pushed her shoulders on the floor, her face crushed, humiliated before him. "Dare you mock your king? I shall show you mockery, and humility. You do not deserve to face your king as he enters you. Since you act like a dog, I will treat you as a dog. In fact—worse. I shall rip open your bowels and force myself upon you until you are bleeding..." As he looked at her face, hair strewn all about, he saw her cheeks shimmering with tears. In her heart, she saw a monster, a demon invade him. And it was all her fault. She had pushed him to this terrible state. Oh what had she begun! Is this what the other wives will have to face—terror, and assumption of deceit? She wept openly, for she could no longer play act, even before her lord. The sorrow that scarred her beautiful face struck him to his heart. She had no intention to mock—he saw that now. He grew soft and exited—nay, fell out of her. Then he walked over to the bed and lay down on it, the emotions of the last hour draining him. "I am done. My anger is ended. You may go." As he heard her rise and pick up the slave-clothes she had donned, his eyes were closed. Then, after a moment, the door leading out of his bedchamber opened. And then shut. His eyes remained closed to the world in order to recriminate himself. "What a fool I am. How often have I said, 'All things must be seen from two places. A foundation can only be seen level from different positions.' I speak that which is wise, but have no wisdom because I do not act it out. I am not just. I am not a true king. I make assumptions and judge based on them. I do not deserve to be around those who care about me. I do not deserve to live." A hand touched his knee, and he jerked his head up as his eyes opened. There she was, her face bowed before him at the foot of his bed, still nude. Her tears were still on her face, but her cheeks were glistening, as if with joy. Her breathing, he could see by her breasts rising and falling, was steady—not fearful or in pain. She bowed before him, and plaintively whispered, "Please do not dismiss your slave. She is not finished with her song." "I am not able to listen to your song anymore." "My king, my song is pleasant. It may cheer you." There she was. Although in the plain, colorless state of a slave, she was his. His wife. His wife from his youth. She has had to endure many rages before, and worse than the one just shown. She has remained beside him before he was king, when his brothers ruled over him and he had nothing but reproach and a future full of rejection. She had given him pleasure and wise counsel in all the years of lowliness. She loved him no matter what— he realizes that now. Despite his weaknesses, despite his misunderstandings, despite his foolish assumptions and idiotic speech, she was always beside him, always supporting him. Never did she openly incriminate him. Yes, she would criticize him at times, but never before others. And never did she bring up again the faults he had exercised against her. "Here you remain, my dove. After I have humiliated you. So beautiful, so delicate. Your breasts float on the air, on your very breath. Your hair hangs down your back as sand is moved by the wind. Your eyes are wide and full, and you look at me in pity. Dear one, after I have harmed you, would you comfort me?" She smiled and climbed on the bed. As she knelt beside him, she bent over him, caressing him, touching his shoulders, and kissing his face. He almost wept at her forgiveness, her care. He kissed her wet face, lapping up her tears, as if he could erase her sorrow from his heart, by eradicating her tears. She sees his weariness and cares, and her lips stroke his eyes, wiping away his own streaks of sorrow streaming from his eyes. She lay down upon his chest, with her ear above his heartbeat, her upper thigh resting upon his deflated member and pelvis. His heart is steady, and slow, almost as if he were to drift off to sleep. Perhaps, she thinks, this was not such a marvelous idea. Yes, this was different for him, and he was certainly aroused. But how much am I—as well as the other wives— willing to pay for his arousal? The child of a king is powerful—but will he only give one in anger, in heat? And for whom am I preparing this path? How many women could endure this humiliation? Even so, she sighed, I have failed. He has given me no seed for so long. How will he ever give it to anyone? In the midst of this peace, he becomes aware of everything this woman is to him. She has given him his first children. She has given him forgiveness. She has given him joy in times of darkness and sorrow. Perhaps... perhaps she can give him renewal. New life. Perhaps she can grant the king a boon—if he would but allow it. Then he becomes aware not of who she is, nor of what she means or of what her hidden intentions are—suddenly it is just her. Her body, resting on his, gentle and golden. Her hair, swirls of brown flowing from her shoulder to his. Her breast as a ripe melon, nipples taut and flesh soft, combining to give goosebumps of pleasure on his skin. Her stomach, pressed against his, shaped as a musical instrument, strumming the rhythm of love . Her thigh, solid against his member, slightly stroking him with her ever-subtle movement. Her skin, creamy and taut over soft flesh—delicious to touch, and to taste. In her ears, his heartbeat quickens, and she feels a pressure jutting into her thigh. She smiles. Perhaps I have not failed after all. She kisses his smooth chest and lifts herself up. One glance at his face shows no change—eyes closed, lips pursed. But she knows better. "My lord, may I serve you?" With eyes still closed, he touches her cheek, saying, "Do as you please, my mistress." She thinks, I will take advantage of that command—for both of us. Not moving her body from him, she shifts her thigh to reveal his penis, and finds, as she touches, it stiffening beneath her fingers. She reaches down into herself and plunges her fingers into her smooth wetness—despite her despair, she remained filled with juice, even through the turmoil. Then she holds onto him again, stroking his shaft with her inner lubrication. Under her tender care, she could feel his shaft becoming hard and she raised it up to the heavens as if an offering, squeezing it, caressing more of her inner smoothness into him. Then she notes his own liquid, being pushed out by her grip, which she quickly combines with her own upon him, and his tip and shaft become slick with the lover's combined nectar. Not releasing him from his pleasure, she moves her body off of him and then squats between his legs. She bends her neck with her face hovering over his now powerful scepter. Poised over his strength, she intones, "You pull back arrows You are taut, and your grip is firm." Quickly, she plunges his penis into her mouth, caressing him with her tongue, stroking him with her lubricated hand. He moans, almost shouting with the pleasure, and places his hand gently on her head. Her hair is as a tent over his groin, but one that rises and falls over him, in time with his pleasure. She tastes their mixed lubrication, and licks it all up, all around his tip and shaft. She takes him out of her mouth, and then caresses herself with his long, thick fruit. She has him stroke her supple neck, then he descends her chest until it circles her left breast, and brushes against her nipple. His member then brushes her upper torso again, between the center of her mounds, up her neck, until he reaches her mouth and he pierces her again, and her tongue licks him up again. How many times did she raise his penis to softly war against her mouth and chest? Twenty, thirty times? His pleasure-sounds did not cease in all that time, and each time she drove him into her mouth like a spike into her flesh, he shouted. After a time, she realizes that she does not want his precious seed to go to waste, so she replaces her mouth with her other hand, and caresses him softly and slowly. Then she smiles again. "My lord?" Still enthralled by lust for her caress, he gasps, "Yes, my mistress?" "May I still do my pleasure?" "Oh, yes. Please do." Still gripping to him with one hand, she lays down and says, "Then come and grant me pleasure." She strokes his hand with her free hand, and picks it up, leading them to her breasts. She purrs... "You are so wise, Your hand will teach much. Your right hand will guide you to awesome deeds." His callused fingers stroke her rising and falling flesh, round and delicate under his touch. She whispers, "You are my lord. You are my teacher. You will show me how to be pleased." She pleads with him with a sincere ache of desire, "Please. I have so much to learn." His other hand caresses her stomach, plumb and scarred from bearing children—his sons. He looks upon her, and sees her eyes closed, her chest straining against his hand, her pelvis raised, ever so slightly. Her softness seduces him to accomplish her desire. He bends over and touches her nipple with his soft lips, gently pinching it. His fingers imitate this motion on her other side, and she stirs under his care. His lips and fingers caress her areolas and then her fleshy mounds, all around them. Then his mouth makes its way back to her nipple. His hand encompasses the flesh of her one breast, lightly pressing it, while his lips dance around her other nipple. They nuzzle it and kiss it and softly pinch it in different ways, from different directions, until finally his mouth opens and his tongue covers her nipple and areola with lubrication. She gasps at this surprise, and hisses, "Yesss." He straddles her stomach, carefully resting his firm member upon her, and he keeps her eyes closed with one hand as his tongue goes between her breasts and nipples. As his hands cup the outside of her breasts, he is licking one nipple, then kissing the other breast, then caressing his teeth against that same nipple, then sucking on the other breast. Finally, he focused on one of her breasts and licks the nipple without ceasing. He felt her pelvis stirring beneath his sack, and, without taking his tongue off of her flesh, he puts his body to one side of her. His mouth is sucking her nipple, blowing air on her, and his hand is stretched out upon her stomach, lowering itself to her hair. The hand then moves to the side, stroking the top of her thigh and as it moves between her open legs, a single finger strokes her inner thigh, and then the other. Her hand reaches down and strokes his hand, so intimately placed, and she leads it up to her willing sex. She all but pants, "Your arrows make their mark in your enemies, Your shootings are sharp in their hearts." At this, his finger slowly penetrates her, stroking into her depth. After three strokes, he adds another finger, and they both delve into her, coming out warmed and wet. After a few times more, he crooks his fingers, allowing much nectar to remain on them and he caresses her vaginal lips, soaking them with her own lubrication. His fingers stroke her up and down, but always remaining shy of her clit, even side-stepping it, and circling it, but never touching—all the while continuing to lick her nipple, stirring her desire. After teasing her like that for a while, then he takes his finger and puts it within her again, pulling out juices that drip from his extended appendage, and he applies his wet firmness directly onto her clit, and she moans and bucks her pelvis slightly. He teases her no more, but strokes her pleasure, deepening her desire. Her breath becomes sharper and more rapid and her hand strokes the top of his hand which is resting on her sex—she does not push him, but she scratches the back of his hand, as if it were she, and not he, enflaming his passion. Finally, she feels the warm burning from within her, which travels up her chest and she can control her feeling no more, but releases her pleasure-moans to his ears. He continues to stroke her, not so roughly, until she lifts his hand from her. For a moment, she basks in the pleasure, in his closeness, in his touch. Then she opens her eyes, and remembers that this night was for him, not her. She smiles at him and reaches down to his stiff penis, confirming his enduring desire. Then she shifts toward him and, taking both hands, leads him to come and cover her, chanting, "Your foes are distraught, They fall under you." At her guiding, he places himself upon her, her legs outstretched and surrounding his back. He kisses her breasts again, and fondles them with his hands, gazing at their shape and slow movement under his strokes. He rests his head upon one as he stares at the other, at rest, at peace. The last thing she wanted, however, is for him to be content with her globes, as pleasant as it was to be caressed in this way. She raised up his lips for her to kiss and as he caressed her lips, she reached down and took hold of his shaft. She brought the tip to her own glistening lower lips and she brushed him against the smooth folds of skin, for all purposes, licking him with her sex. Feeling this pleasure, he pushed his hip a little further up, and his penis-tip just barely was covered by the gentle caresses of her vagina. Still holding onto him, she moves him up and down within herself, and feels some stirring again within her. "Come, my love," she calls as she pulls his buttock up. He raises himself up, and slowly pushes himself within her, and then out. The pleasure of her surrounded him, and he could feel his heart racing... but why rush? Why not enjoy this night together? He pushes himself all the way inside of her and remains there a moment, securing his position. Then he raises himself up, to get a bit deeper, and to have the base of his shaft rest solid against her clit. With minute but quick movements, he strokes her internally, rubbing her clit with his penis and as he heard her gasp, he smiled at her. She grimaced and then closed her eyes under the overwhelming pressure of her pleasure. This is not what she wanted. He wouldn't spill his seed in her this way... but ohhhh, he felt so good. He was deep within her, driving into her with very short movements, and he covered her, as if he were surrounding her sex, her body in a way that could not be resisted. Her arms reached around his back and her fingernails scratched his skin as he persisted in his infernal pleasure-giving...OH, that was it, oh, ohhhhhh. And she released herself around him, beneath him, surrounded by him. She comes to herself with him still within her, still hard, his hand stroking her hair, staring into her eyes, pupils large with his love for her. May he be accursed, she thought within her heart. He still hasn't released himself. But wait, what was he saying? "My love, I have done you a disservice. You do deserve to rise yourself above me. You do deserve to reign your glory upon me. Let me lay down and you take your place upon me..." She would not take a chance of his anger flaring up again. But if he desires some humility, it could be arranged. "Nay, my lord," she coaxed, "I am beneath you now, and so I obtain my pleasure at your will, at your strength above me, upon me, within me. But should you wish for me to reign, even as queen, thus we shall do so together." She motions him to pull out of her and to rest on the bed. "Allow me to show you, my lord." She climbs off of the bed (just a bit sore, but clearly a joyful soreness) and goes to the corner of the chamber, where the slaves places the massive cushions, usually set upon the bed during the day. She stacked up two cushions on the floor, displaying them to him and sang aloud, "You sit on your throne Your glory is over them." He sits up, puzzled at her song. Then she takes his hand and guides him away from the bed toward the cushions, bidding him to be seated. He smiles, and sits upon his "throne", which was certainly softer than the throne he had to ascend daily. She walks around him now, looking the whole scene over. He murmurs, "But if I am on a throne, how should we reign together? There is only room for one on a throne." On an impulse, she kisses him on the back of his neck. Deciding that was not enough, she presses her body against his back, stroking his arms and shoulders, then descending to his butt and thighs. She reaches one hand around him, and grasps his penis, chanting, "Your majesty reigns over your kingdom Your scepter stands tall in the midst of you." His member is still soaking from the bath she gave him. She begins stroking him, her thumb massaging the tip, and kissing his back, and caressing his shoulders with her free hand. Then she moves around him, not releasing his penis for a moment, and places her legs over his bent leg. Her whole hand massages his staff, and her thumb rubs over the whole of his tip. He moans at this feeling, and she begins to stroke her hand up and down his member. She can see that he is really enjoying it, no longer being introspective, just focusing on his own pleasure and what she can give him. Finally. Now he is where she wants him. She sits on his leg, and he feels her wetness upon his skin. She moves her head closer to his face and then chants quietly before him, "You will do the right and hate the evil— You will act in goodness and right." She puts his legs together, and hovers above them, her body close to his torso. She lifts his penis and slides it against her slit, up and down, up and down, and continues to sing... Psalm of Love "Therefore God anoints you with joy Therefore you are lubricated with pleasure." Then she slowly descends upon him, placing her legs around him. He could feel her anointing all around him—it felt better than anything had his whole life. "You see, my lord?" she grins at him, as he stared at her with his eyes wide and his mouth in a perfect circle, "We may sit on one throne together, complete. You are on the throne, having the authority. I am but sitting upon your lap, as you are my teacher. I surround you, and lift you up and you are completely within me. And because of you, I move..." and here she begins to stroke herself upon him, causing him to moan "and you speak because of my action." She couldn't help but notice that his member felt good sliding around in her, but she commanded herself to focus. "After all," she spoke within herself, "he who would reign over another must first rule himself." And assuring herself that she was a wise ruler over all her domain, she focused on her husband. She bent down upon his shoulder, and sniffed his skin deeply, singing, "Your clothes are cologne Simply sweet and delicious." "And this is true," she added, "as you have no other clothes but your scent right now." He recovered from his intense pleasure, and was now seeking more from her. He stroked her back and then grabbed her waist and pushed himself into her. Ah, she sighed to herself, that was pleasant. Then she rebuked herself, Must focus, must focus... but his desire was the cause of her desire increasing. Stablizing herself, she pressed her breasts to him, engulfing his face in her orbs. He sniffed deeply of her and pushed more rapidly up into her. Ah... oh, she kept it to herself... and then he began to lick her breasts again, seeking out her nipples and nibbling on them, stroking them with his nose and tongue... She couldn't hold in any more, so she drew her face close to him and whispered in his ear, "Oh, my love... Soft music grants you pleasure. Warm pluckings will grant you joy." Ahhhh, yes, that's it...." Hearing her cries of delight, and inspired by her closeness and the pleasure inflicted upon his member, he could feel himself coming close to releasing. His moans were echoed by her, and soon they were competing to see which would cause the slaves to rush in to see what was wrong first. They held onto each other, pressed into each other's flesh, breathing each other's breath and their sex joined as one pleasure. Finally, she gave in and released herself upon him, moaning upon him and shaking with joy upon his lap. Her contractions and her shriek at the moment of her orgasm stirred his desire higher than it had ever gone before, and he released himself deep within her, and she squeezed him still, again and again, until he was emptied into her, deep within her womb. She collapsed upon him, and he held her aloft, until he found his strength become lax. Then he held her in his arms, arose from his throne, and carried her back to the bed. He placed the blanket upon her and then rested next to her. She placed her arm over his chest and her leg over his leg. As her head rested next to his ear, she whispered, "You honor daughters of kings with your presence Most honored is the queen, wearing gold." She thought for a moment, "How are the other wives going to repeat this performance?" Then she realized that they couldn't. What does it matter, she mused, they will have to create their own performance. Why should I do all the work? She held the king tight all night long. And they slept the sleep of the one who labors hard for the good of his family.