The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  His memory had served him well. This was indeed the arms room. Two candles burned, one at either end of the broad table the guards used for cleaning their weapons. And in their light he saw two men.

  One was half in, half out of a guard’s uniform. Peering, Raymond recognized him as Lieutenant Peter, Alex’s second in command. His companion was fair-haired, tall and thin; he was no one Raymond knew. He watched as Alex laid the man back on the table. The man’s cock stood up as he lay back. It was huge, bigger than any Raymond had ever seen, not that he had seen very many erect. A thick vein ran the length of it. A drop of precum at the tip glistened in the candlelight.

  Lieutenant Peter bent down and began sucking. The fair-haired man moaned. His body responded, heaving and twisting with obvious pleasure, obvious passion. His body was beautiful, as tempting as any man’s body he’d ever seen. Like every young man everywhere, Raymond had an active fantasy life, and this man, this gorgeous, luscious fair-haired man, was remarkably close to the dream lover he conjured when he gratified himself. Idly his hand drifted down to his crotch and he began to stroke himself.

  He watched; he stroked. Peter rolled his companion over on his stomach and began to lick his backside. Again, the man groaned. Peter’s tongue probed deeper and deeper, licking the man’s butthole. Raymond had never seen such a thing, never even imagined it. Sucking a man’s cock was an idea that came to him quite naturally, but this… ! His own cock was harder than it had ever been. He slid his robe up and masturbated.

  He had never been so excited. He came in only a moment, shooting a huge load onto the barracks floor. As he came, he couldn’t suppress a moan.

  Suddenly he was embarrassed at his own behavior. He let his robes fall back into place. Now… what would be the proper thing? Should he clean up what he had done?

  Inside the arms room the activity stopped. Peter’s companion whispered, “What was that?”

  Raymond realized that they had heard him. He scurried quickly away and out the front door.

  * * *

  “I tell you, I heard something,” Logan insisted. “And look—the door’s open a crack. Someone’s been watching us. One of your fellow guards.”

  Peter laughed. “That’s not likely. If I know my comrades, they’d have been a lot more likely to join in than to stand outside watching. It was probably just a cuckoo clock that was running fast or slow. That happens a lot.”

  Logan wasn’t so sure. He got to his feet, walked to the door and opened it. Whoever had been there was gone. “I don’t mind putting on a show for someone, but at least he could pay me for the ticket.” He shrugged and looked back at Peter with a leer on his face. “Now, where were we?”

  He undressed Peter, bent him over the table and returned the favor. Peter moaned loudly when he came, and his voice seemed to echo in the hallway outside. Logan smirked, “For the greater glory of Bulvania, eh?”

  Peter pretended to be shocked. “Have you no reverence? No simple respect?”

  “None that anyone’s ever discovered.”

  They started to get dressed. Peter commented that they ought to get back to the ball before they were missed.

  “Sure. But I don’t mind telling you, you guys look really hot in your uniforms. I’d love to get some good pics of you.”

  “That might be difficult to arrange, Logan. These are our formal dress uniforms. We only wear them on ceremonial occasions. And then we’re too busy with our official duties to do anything like posing for pictures.”

  “Bummer. Don’t you wear them in all the tourist promotions? I mean, they look great, and—”

  “The tourist promotions all focus on cuckoo clocks.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  An Idea hit Peter. He snapped his fingers. “I have it! The coronation next Sunday. Right after the formal ceremony at the cathedral there’ll be a parade through the city. You know—presenting the new king to his people, and all. We’ll be wearing our dress uniforms for that. I can show you some spots along the parade route where you should be able to get some great pictures.”

  “Terrific. Thanks.”

  “Now, let’s get back to the ball.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Raymond climbed the spiral stairs leading up the second tower. There were no clocks in the tower; the silence—the absence of continual ticking—seemed strange. Since he had come to the palace the ticking of scores of clocks had been a constant. Moving in a silent place was wonderful, almost like being back in St. Dymphna’s.

  Up the steep, narrow staircase he climbed, past level after level of the tower. By the time he reached the top he was quite winded; whoever lived here certainly liked his privacy.

  There was only one room at the top. The door was slightly ajar, open only a crack, and there was a light on inside. Raymond hesitated; should he intrude of the privacy of whoever was inside? But curiosity got the better of him. He walked silently to the door and pushed it open a few inches.

  Much to his surprise he saw a lavish, sumptuous bedroom. Ornate tapestries hung on the walls. Six intricately carved mahogany tables held six huge Tiffany lamps. They were all switched on, and they cast a warm, colored glow on everything in the room. The largest of them was covered with beautiful red and yellow stained-glass roses, and on the table beneath it rested a bust, the head of a handsome young man carved in white marble. The lines were sleek and modern; it was a marvelous piece of Art Deco sculpture. The rest of the room was filled with what seemed to be antiques—sculptures, icons, old photographs in ornate gold and silver frames…

  Against the far wall, directly opposite the door, was a huge bed, the largest Raymond had ever seen, larger even than the king’s bed. The mattress was two feet thick, and the bed was covered with a velvet spread, into which was stitched the royal crest of Bulvania. In the bed, seemingly asleep, was an old man, the oldest man on record, Raymond thought, certainly the oldest he had ever seen. Maybe even the oldest man in Bulvania? He appeared to be asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, Raymond turned silently and made to leave.

  “Wait.”

  He looked. The old man’s eyes were open. He raised a hand, beckoning Raymond to his bed.

  “You have come to visit me?” the old man asked. “No one does, anymore.”

  The situation had Raymond off balance. Would it be rude to tell the man he had only come out of curiosity? “I—I—”

  “You are young. That pleases me.”

  Raymond’s mind was racing. Who could this man be? And why was he living in isolation, high in this tower? A thought occurred to him. He decided to make a guess. “You—you are the grand duke?”

  The man smiled and nodded weakly. “Rupert von Flausenthurm, at your service. “Are you my new attendant?”

  “No, sir. I—”

  “Only a curiosity seeker, eh? Well, I imagine I am one of the biggest curiosities in Bulvania.”

  Raymond bowed to him. “We are related, then. I’m Raymond von Flausenthurm.”

  Rupert’s eyes widened; it was the first slight sign of animation he had shown. “My boys told me there was a new king. You?”

  Raymond blushed and nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t feel very much like a king. So far I’ve been ‘handled’ nonstop.”

  “They will never stop handling you. I am afraid that is something you will have to get used to.” He paused. “Me, I am grateful I was spared that.”

  “Sir?”

  “They have not told you the history? I am—or was—the brother of one of your predecessors, Raymond XXXIV. I was the older brother. He took the throne when they passed over me.”

  “You were to be the king?!”

  Rupert chuckled and nodded.

  “Why did—excuse my curiosity, sir—why were you never crowned? Why did your brother—”

  “I apologize for mistaking you for an attendant, your majesty. I thought—”

  “Please, sir, call me Raymond.”

  “Raymond. How unsurprising.” Again, he laughed. “I would have b
een the first king of Bulvania to have a name other than that. Many of the nobles on the Privy Council were scandalized by the very thought.”

  “They passed over you for that? That is all?! I know tradition means a great deal here, and I know that some people can be fanatical about it, but—”

  “No, that is not all.”

  “Then—? Please, sir, I want to know.”

  Rupert chuckled softly. He raised a finger and pointed at the Art Deco bust in white marble. “There. That is the reason.”

  Raymond looked from the duke to the sculpture and back again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

  A sly smile crossed Rupert’s lips. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Please, sir.”

  “Then hold my hand.”

  “Sir?!”

  “Hold my hand. If you want to know, that is the price. Do not worry. I am years past anything more lascivious than that.”

  Raymond’s curiosity was up. And—what harm could it do? He reached out and took Rupert’s hand. It was surprisingly soft, and surprisingly warm.

  But Rupert’s gaze was on the bust. “That is—was—my lover. His name was Daniel Herndon. He was British. We met in Paris when I was 20. I loved him. More than anyone, more than anything. More than the throne of Bulvania. Do you understand?”

  “I think I do, yes.”

  “If you could have seen my Daniel. He was tall and lean and muscular. He had the thickest curly red hair. What he saw in me, I’ll never know.”

  On the nightstand beside the bed there was an old photograph of two men in 1920s-style bathing suits. “Is this the two of you?”

  “Yes.” It was a whisper.

  “You were a handsome young man. You both were. A handsome couple. But could anyone, could even a king—?”

  “No, not even a king could do that in those days. I would like to think that in this new century, this new age… ” Gently he squeezed Raymond’s hand.

  “The king is the head of state. And the head of the Church of Bulvania. You could have—”

  “No, I could not. The Privy Council would not hear of it. And the archbishop, a venomous old sodomite himself, was apoplectic at the thought.

  “There was no way I could produce a royal heir. Women—no. I told the Council quite plainly that I loved Daniel and wanted to marry him. It was my intention to change the canons of the Church of Bulvania so that I could marry the man I loved.

  “So, they sent me off to Paris with a trust fund to live on, and my little brother Raymond became king. And nothing in Bulvania changed.”

  This was all new to Raymond, and it took him a moment to digest it. “Wh—when did you come back?”

  “The late king—your immediate predecessor—recalled me. I had been a Parisian for so long I had almost forgotten this country altogether. But… Well, Daniel died many years ago.” He let go of Raymond’s hand. “You should have seen Paris in those years. It was its own little heaven. Art and artists were everywhere. That bust of my Daniel is by Erté himself. But Paris changed. Everything changes. It is no more the vibrant place it was then. And no one in Paris wanted me. I belonged nowhere. No old man does. And so I came back.

  “Oh, there was a fuss. The current archbishop, that reptile Defilippo, raised the most awful stink. I don’t know why. What did he think I could do? But you see, he knew about King Raymond and his lover. I suppose one more royal sodomite, to use his favorite term—”

  The king was reeling from the flood of new information. “The king had a lover? He was—?”

  “I have never been able to get precise information about the accident that killed him. But it is not hard to suspect that Defilippo had a hand in it. Defilippo or the queen. Or both. You must be careful, young king, very careful. Not everyone in Bulvania is your loyal subject, much less your friend.”

  Rupert adjusted himself in the bed; and it was obviously a great effort for him. Raymond jumped to his feet to help him. “Please, Raymond, do not fuss. I can do that for myself. I get by with only three servants, three boys. They do for me. The queen tried to have me turned out of the palace, but the Privy Council wouldn’t let her. Thank heaven they have at least that much humanity in them.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that, ever again. I promise you, sir, my first official act as king will be to proclaim a day of public honors for you. This country has treated you so badly. Promise me you will come to my coronation. You will have a place of honor.”

  “Are you already forgetting my warning? You would only be making trouble for yourself. Besides,” he lowered his voice, “I am afraid I am unable to walk. My boys would have to carry me down from the tower, and it could not be easy for them. They will have to carry me down soon enough anyway, when I die. Requiring them to do it again now… ” He shook his head.

  “I can send as many men as you need. I can send an army.”

  Rupert took his hand again. “You are a good man. A decent man. The kind of king Bulvania needs. But please, do not trouble yourself over me. I am one 102—years past wanting honors or recognition. Soon I will be with my Daniel again. That is enough. That and—that and you.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “If you call me ‘sir’ again, I swear I will get up and slap you, king or no king. Rupert, it is Rupert.”

  “Sorry, si—Rupert.”

  Rupert took his hand again, gazed at him and smiled. “I am not infallible, but I have always been a good judge of men. You, Raymond, you will be the king I would have been, if they had let me.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are the king of Bulvania, or you will be in a few days. Never let them make you unhappy. What you need for your happiness and contentment, take. My Daniel will be watching over you from his place in heaven, and so will I when I join him. Be happy, young king.”

  With great difficulty Rupert struggled up, leaned forward and kissed Raymond on the forehead.

  The touch of his lips thrilled Raymond. They were warm; they felt like love. He embraced the old man and lay him gently down again.

  Softly Rupert said, “You have been in a monastery, they tell me.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know about men loving men.”

  Raymond blushed; he was completely flustered. “No! Rupert, I—”

  “Be true to yourself. Be true to your love. Be happy. And leave me, now. I need to sleep. My boys are serving at the ball, but they will be back soon, so I will be all right.” He peered directly into Raymond’s eyes. “You will be the one. I have waited all my life, and I am so grateful to have lived long enough to see you.”

  * * *

  Raymond visited the old duke every day, and they grew to be close. But when the preparations for his coronation demanded too much of his time, he wasn’t able to go anymore. He dutifully sent messengers to inquire after the old man’s health and to make his apologies for not visiting. And it bothered him not to be able to do more for him. But even heirs to the throne have limitations.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Logan, P.T. and the others spent the following week settling into their life at the embassy and learning more about who was who and what was what in Bulvania. Constantine was in his glory, fussily overseeing details, arranging protocols, ordering servants about like a petty bureaucratic tyrant. Logan, seeing him turn into a government robot, quickly lost any erotic interest in him, not that there had ever been much.

  Marge settled into an unofficial “mistress of the house” role, part personal assistant to P.T., part secretary, part head housekeeper, and part everything else. For the most part she ignored Constantine and went about the business of arranging everything at the embassy to P.T.’s liking; she knew his habits and his tastes better than any charge d’affaires ever could, and she made sure Constantine understood that. “I’ve worked for P.T. Bockwein for eight years. I know him, and he knows me. You’ll find that he trusts and relies on me in a way he never will on you.” He bristled at it, and he even complained to P.T. about M
arge. But when it became clear to him that P.T. would back Marge no matter what, he adjusted to the reality of the situation, exactly as a good diplomat should.

  The embassy itself was a large, ramshackle building from the 18th century. Bulvania was neither large nor wealthy enough for the American embassy to amount to much more than that. It had been retrofitted to accommodate a computer network, air-conditioning and the like; but no one had ever seen justification for expending more money on it than was absolutely necessary. The building was comfortable enough—even luxurious, by Bulvanian standards—with gorgeous antique furniture and marvelous feather beds, but both P.T. and Logan hoped this tin deal, if it came off, would justify building something more modern and even more comfortable.

  The embassy had a full-time staff of local residents, mostly Bulvanians. Though there was a Greek woman on the housekeeping staff and a Bulgarian man who tended the gardens. They all adjusted quickly to the new situation and acknowledged Marge as their boss, not Constantine.

  There were daily emails from Washington, asking about the progress of the negotiations for the Bulvanian tin lode. After the first two explanations that very little could happen till the new king was crowned, P.T. gave up trying and left Marge to compose the official responses, all of which amounted to a very polite, exceedingly diplomatic “drop dead, idiots!”

  There were daily lectures on Bulvanian history and culture and twice-daily tours of this and that. Their guide was Pierre Montserrat, a private in the royal guards. He was not especially good-looking and, worse, he was straight; Logan suspected that Alex had given him this duty on purpose, to keep Logan at bay.

  They learned their way around Flausenthurmopolis, where the best shopping was to be found (both Marge and Logan were happy that the best European styles were on offer at the best shops), which neighborhoods to avoid, how to reach the most exclusive beaches, and on and on. Logan made detailed photo records of all of it.

  They toured the Bulvania Cuckoo Clock Factory. The constant noise inside—clocks ticking, mechanisms whirring, birds chirping and cuckooing in hundreds of clocks—was almost deafening. Marge asked what kept the factory workers from going mad with it. “Please, miss,” Pierre sniffed, mildly offended, “The sound of cuckoo clocks is the sound of Bulvania itself!”