His Storyteller
His Story Teller - A complete short story
The party is nearly over, although it is almost inadequate to call it that. For if seven days of feasting and dancing; fighting and killing of beasts from arfits to lexumes can be called a “party,” then a millennium can be called a year-cycle.
And this year-cycle has seemed a millennium. A year to the very day since, his intentions untold to me (and why should they be?), he stood in front of the court, his hand on my shoulder, gripping so tight… and announced that in one cycle he would marry her. I should say something tragic at this juncture, that my heart dropped from my chest and I watched it shatter but it wasn’t anything so fanciful. This isn’t fiction. It was my life he destroyed that day, and my mind – I’ve felt the tendrils of madness creeping into my thoughts from that day on, though I’ve managed to keep them hidden from him, at least.
Then today? Today, he married her. With the pomp and hypocrisy that attends such occasions, flags waving, trumpets blaring and the death’s head grin of the bridegroom as he nightmared his responses, with me at his side, taut as an bowstring, and when the last piece of perfumed chistia had been thrown, its amber petals settling glowing on their shoulders, I walked away.
The party continues without them, and my master is with my mistress tonight on the other side of that wall, which only blessing is its thickness so that I cannot hear them.
But it helps but little. I have an imagination so vivid I am cursed. He has revelled in it, drowned in it, having little himself; he has had me tell him tales of lust and imagining from every corner of the cosmos. For him I have been a slave-boy fresh from the pits of Ardes, a collar round my neck, a brand on my hip, enslaved in lust for my master. I have had him play a crosswhore from Twithscent, and he has dressed in voile and perfume just to play the part. I am his storyteller, and I would spin the universe for his arousal.
But this act of imagination, pulling up the vision of him with her? This comes difficult, and yet unbidden. I know the mechanics of such lusts if not by experience. My mind whirls at his tenderness with her. She will be all doe eyed, and like a doe will stand trembling. He will approach her as he does with any wild creature, gently. His hands will unclasp the catches of her robe and he will be hard for her.
Sitting here in the dark, I am iron at just the thought of him. In the shadows it is easy to hide, to push aside the party clothes I wear, will never wear again, and hold myself, rubbing the calluses of my palms against the soft flesh of my rigid cock. My eyes close and imagination takes over once more. In my mind I know that he is revolted, and not aroused by her rounded form, for a phantom of him appears suddenly out of the dark and drops to his knees, begging forgiveness, kissing my thighs, tears of contrition trickling down the hairs of my legs and settling between my cheeks.
As I imagine his mouth descending onto my jealous hardness, I pull hard, flinging one arm out to reach the oil in the side drawer, slathering my cock and fingers with it, and trusting up and up into my eager hand, imagining it is his mouth, which spills over with apology, but too full of my rod for him to speak the words of his mistake. In my mind I catch my fingers in his hair and punish him for his inconstancy, force his head down over me, while my fist makes a cave of fingers and oil in fine simulacrum of his mouth and throat.
I groan his name, blotting out the thought of her virgin screams and the celebration of the crowd beneath his window. The vision that is not him climbs into my lap, and lowers himself upon me as he has a hundred times before, a king, impaling himself upon a commoner. My mouth opens as I imagine the phantom kiss and my fingers tighten around my pulsing shaft and I imagine his blissful weight and the heat of his channel around me. My hips buck wildly, my fist blurs as I invent him rising and falling above me, sweat from my hair, doubling for us both, my tongue outstretched to his precious invisible lips. I can almost feel his palms on my shoulders, where he loves to place them, gripping so tight they’ll leave bruises.
I’m close. So close and my hand tightens and relaxes on the down stroke as I imagine him crying out my name as he comes. Hot liquid splashes on my stomach and chest, but it is my own, not his, the heat subsiding with every pulsing heartbeat until there is nothing left, nothing but the darkness of my eyes shut tight against the truth.