by Mara Kelly
The magistrate dressed quickly, still seemingly unaware of Tobias's presence, and hurried for the door. Marica took the vial and went to one of the cases.
Tobias got to his feet awkwardly, his trousers in a tangle around his ankles.
She looked at him. "What are you doing?"
"Whatever you bid," he answered at once. Her spell was still strong upon him, and he could barely breathe or move under her gaze. He thought briefly of Cilla, and felt ashamed—what would she think if she saw him now?
Marica paused, then closed the case and turned to him. "I see," she said with a smile. She crossed the room to him, and his heart pounded painfully. She went around behind him, her hand lingering over his still-erect member. "Would you like to be strung up and flogged for me?" she said softly.
"Whatever you bid," Tobias replied in a strangled voice, against his will.
He felt rather than saw her smile, and the next moment he found himself suspended as the magistrate had been, his clothes completely gone. He did not see the sorceress lift her cane again, but he felt it bite into his flesh, and he cried out in pain and ecstasy. He hung, helpless, while the cane smote him and the place between his legs grew warm and excited.
All at once, the flogging stopped. He dimly heard the sorceress' voice, and felt himself rising, and then her mouth was on him once again, and he writhed, suspended and helpless and ecstatic, as her tongue and lips tormented him. It was wicked and horrible and wonderful.
She stepped back, and Tobias opened his eyes, gulping as she unlaced the front of her gown and let it fall from her shoulders. Her breasts were large and golden in the lamplight, her hair dark red against her fair skin, and her face was smooth and ageless, her cat's eyes filled with desire. If possible, his prick stood up even more painfully at the sight of her.
The world spun upside down, and he found himself on his back, as though on a bed or table—but no surface was beneath him. Marica stood over him and lowered one perfect breast to his mouth. He took it hungrily. She was going to take his essence any moment, the way she had taken the magistrate's, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He closed his eyes and made a half-hearted attempt to picture lovely, chaste Cilla, but Marica moved her other breast to his mouth, and he was lost.
And then the sorceress spoke again, and she was suspended above him, lowering herself onto him, riding him like an animal. He couldn't help himself; he bucked against her, grinding his hips into hers, filling her with his engorged heat. He realized his bonds were gone, and he opened his eyes.
They were high in the room, locked together in the most primal of ways, nothing holding them but air and the sorceress' magic. The chains lay in a heap far below. Tobias let out a strangled moan and reached for her, letting his hands slide over her warm, perfect skin. Marica clutched at his shoulders, rearing her head back as she rode him like someone in a race. She dragged her mouth to his and kissed him deep and long and forcefully. She drove him into her again and again, until at last she lifted her head and shrieked, her fingernails scoring his arms. He felt her spasms closing around him.
"I..." he struggled to say, but he was spinning through the air dizzily, pleasure and pain and wickedness swirling in his mind, his body powerless to do anything but give into the spasms of pleasure absorbing it.
He opened his eyes, breathing heavily, and found himself lying on the cold floor. Marica stood over him, retying the front of her dress.
He looked up at her dazedly. "You didn't take my essence," he said.
She laughed. "Oh, I did. Not for potion though."
Tobias frowned, too confused to be embarrassed by his nakedness. "But you made me take the potion. You made me submissive."
She laughed again, but this time the sound had a nasty edge to it. "Oh, that potion was for resistance."
Tobias stared at her.
Marica bent and placed one hand on his cheek. "You alone of all men come to me by choice."
The Way Of Our Kind
My dear Celine,
I hope this letter finds you well. My brother has recently informed me of your good fortune—or, rather, his good fortune, as it would appear from the manner of his telling. No doubt having a daughter chosen to be Court Mistress to the Regent of Sachary is one of the grandest accomplishments in his life. You have always been a loving and caring daughter, and will no doubt continue to provide for your parents in their advancing age.
My brother mentioned nothing of our father's reaction to the news, but no doubt it was less than pleased. I of all people know this well. Your grandfather the duke does not harbor much affection for those of our, shall we say, ilk, and so I felt compelled to write to you and offer a voice of support.
I also have much to offer you in the way of advice. You now find yourself in a precarious position, my dear, and I perhaps flatter myself to think that the wisdom of my experience can help you.
I was but a lad of eighteen, not much older than you, when the Queen of Alareda turned her eye on me, and in less than a year I had become her favorite bed partner. If I perhaps pursued the position with less ambition than you have pursued yours, dear Celine, forgive me. I had never gone to court with the intention of bedding the queen, though the flesh of several other ladies had been in my sights. Such is life of the youngest son of a lesser duke.
When Iolanta made me her favorite—not through open declaration, for such things were not done in those days—my life changed. I was given a stately suite of rooms in the palace, just below hers, with a hidden staircase adjoining the two. I often made use of these stairs, I must tell you, for Iolanta's husband, the second prince of Sachary, was a famously jealous, if old and slow, man. Iolanta didn't seem to mind flaunting her affairs before him; there was little he could do, as she was already heir to the throne of Alareda by the time she took me to her, her older brother having died two years earlier. I do not think her mother would have married her off to such an old and wrinkled man as the prince had she known Iolanta would become queen one day.
Though Iolanta did not mind the whole court knowing of the many nights I shared her bed, I knew that her husband could make my life very difficult if he wanted to. I always strove for discretion, as you must, Celine. The Regent's wife no doubt already feels some humiliation at her husband's resurrecting the title of Court Mistress. You must do all in your power to make her see you as an ally, not an enemy.
Fortunately, I did not have to deal with the prince's malice for long, as he died less than a year after I first shared Iolanta's bed. Some still gossip that his death was not natural—I do not claim to know the truth of that. Iolanta never discussed her political intrigues with me, not even after our marriage the year after she took the throne. She made it clear that my claim on her ended at the bedroom door, and she often liked to remind me that the line of succession in Alareda was by blood only. That, more than anything, is why none of her subjects objected to her marrying me. And that is why your grandfather has never forgiven me. To him, I am nothing more than a glorified whore.
It is with the wisdom of age that I can say this, Celine: perhaps he is right. Perhaps that is all my life has amounted to. But I have been content, and I have known some measure of power in my time. I have been near the centers of government, and I have danced among the wealthy and the potent. And I know something in my life that my father could never comprehend, something that I am certain you will understand: I have known love and passion like none he could ever imagine.
For that is the secret of all of our kind, is it not? No matter how much ambition colors our actions, we love those who hold us in their thrall. We would not weather the barbs, nor fight to maintain our tenuous positions in their hearts, were it otherwise.
And I suppose that what I really want to tell you, Celine, is that they love us too, in their way. Oh yes, they often love power more, but they fail to realize the power we wield over them, over their hearts. Know that you have that power, my dear, and do not give it up. You have attained your place by the Regent'
s side; now comes the arduous, never-ending struggle to maintain that place. Remember that you are subject to his whim, and that a pretty new face may stir his fancy. You must be more than that pretty face. You must give him all he cannot find elsewhere—compassion, sympathy, hope, passion. And you must challenge him in ways no one else does. Allow him to think you are the bird in his cage, when in reality he turns the key in response to your song.
I learned these things through many long years, Celine, and I do hope you will indulge an old man's memories and read what follows. I know that pages of advice will interest you very little, and so I wish to share a story with you, one that has been much on my mind in recent weeks. Some would find it horribly inappropriate of me to share such a sordid tale as that which follows with a girl your age; however, I write to you now as a fellow practitioner of the ancient art of seduction, and I know you have seen and done things already in your short life which may surpass that which shall be described here.
I was twenty-seven years old on the evening I shall describe. Iolanta and I had been married for four years then, and I would be lying if I told you that the passion between us had not somewhat cooled. I was, in truth, a bit bored. When I had been her plaything, while her first husband had been alive, I used to spend long hours imagining new and exciting ways to make love to her. But being her husband had cooled my ardor somewhat; I no longer had to use the secret stairs to her rooms. My eye had begun to wander, over scullery maids and lesser ladies of the court, and more than once I acted on those thoughts when the opportunity presented itself. I told myself that Iolanta didn't care; she surely knew of these liaisons, as nothing in the court escaped her notice, and besides, she slept with any man she fancied, particularly when there was political gain to be had in the coupling. Why, she had spent the very evening before in the company of the dark-haired Sachary ambassador who was negotiating her succession to the throne of that land.
I suppose I ought to mention that we were in Sachary at the time—in Notto, as a matter of fact, only a stone's throw from where you now please the Regent each night. We had gone for the king's funeral, and undoubtedly it was not a coincidence that the day after the funeral, only hours after Iolanta had taken the ambassador to her bed, that the Ambassadors' Council announced the throne of Sachary should go to Iolanta, by virtue of her marriage to the king's younger brother.
I knew, as the ambassador did not, that Iolanta would have bedded the young man regardless. He had a certain lean, quick quality that I myself had possessed in my youth, and I knew better than anyone what Iolanta liked.
But I digress—the evening which I wish to describe happened after Iolanta had been proclaimed Queen of Sachary. There was a ball that night to celebrate, and though her hand rested on my thigh during the speeches, I sensed she was far more interested in her own increased power than she was in me. It had long since been made clear to me, by Iolanta and her advisors, that my role as her husband was to keep myself handsome and dance with her at balls, and to go to her bed whenever summoned.
I was as bored with the ball as I had been with every other function during our visit, and I spent most of the evening trying to think of a way to corner one particularly lovely serving wench in a dark hallway. Iolanta danced with each of the Sachary ambassadors, flirting shamelessly, and seemed to be having the time of her life.
So I was more than a bit surprised when she came up behind me and whispered in my ear that she wanted to leave. I glanced at her, puzzled, but she claimed she had a headache and wanted to go back to the house on the river street where we had taken rooms. I sent for the carriage at once, and was surprised when she slipped out of the ball without bidding anyone farewell. That was unlike her—I wondered if she had had too much wine.
In the carriage, she smiled and sat back with her eyes closed. "Did you have a good time tonight, darling?" she asked.
"It was a lovely ball," I answered. "The people of Sachary love you already."
She laughed, though I didn't see what was funny, and she reached over and squeezed my hand. "They will love you too. You will see."
I very much doubted that; even to most of the people in my home country, I was nothing but an inconsequential sexual conquest of the queen's, and I'd already succeeded in making most of the ambassadors think I was an imbecile because of my horrid grasp of the Sachary tongue.
The carriage stopped, and I climbed out, then turned around to help Iolanta down. Only then did I realize that we weren't on the river street at all, but in a part of town I had never seen before. The carriage had stopped in front of a many-storied house with candles alight in every window.
"What is this—" I started to say, but Iolanta cut me off.
"It's all right," she murmured. "I told them to bring us here." She nodded to the driver, who started off, and she took my hand and led me up the low steps to the house. She raised the hood of her cloak as we passed a group of young women sitting on the porch, and I took this cue by lowering the brim of my hat. No doubt this was some political intrigue of hers, though why she had brought me along, I couldn't say.
She pulled the bell at the front door, and we were immediately shown inside by a portly older woman who did not ask to take our cloaks. She led us past a parlor full of young men and woman and up five winding flights of steps. I was panting by the time we reached the top, but Iolanta hardly seemed to feel the exertion at all.
This hallway was more ornately paneled than those we had passed below, the carpet thicker underfoot—though the whole house had the air of a place that catered to the wealthy nobility of Sachary. I was beginning to suspect what the place was at this point—perhaps you already know.
But I did not expect the sight that greeted us when the proprietor opened the door of a room at the end of the hallway. The room was large, decorated in shades of scarlet and gold, with an enormous four-posted bed at the center. A low bench sat by the window, and upon it perched two young women—no older than eighteen, I guessed—who looked as like each other as Strabo and his double in the stories of the old gods. Both had hair the color of honey that flowed down their backs, and their skin was fair in the way of the Sacharys. Their frames were identically petite, and the pert set of their breasts was accentuated by the gauzy garments they wore, blue confections that crossed over their chests, leaving a diamond of smooth flesh exposed at their stomachs, before falling into floating skirts.
Both girls stood as we entered, and, as the material rustled about their hips, it revealed itself to be transparent, the multiple layers the only thing providing their bodies with any coverage at all.
"Do they please you, my lady?" said the proprietor in broken Alaredan.
Iolanta shrugged off her cloak and handed it to the woman, then strode across the room to examine the girls. I knew by this time where we were—no doubt in the fabled pleasure-house of Lady Kelai, dark angel of the Sachary courts—but I didn't understand why Iolanta had brought me here. Surely if she wanted to indulge a new fascination with girls, she could do it in the privacy of her own rooms. Or did she want me to watch?
I was irritated by her failure to tell me of her plans, but I was also aroused. It would have been impossible not to become so in the presence of the two fair-haired Sacharys, beautiful and scantily clad as they were, but in truth it was Iolanta's commanding air as she circled the two girls, examining them, that raised a bulge in my trousers. Iolanta stopped before one of the girls, thoughtfully smoothing down the heavily embroidered golden ball dress she wore. She was nearly a head shorter than both girls, and, at nearly twice their age, ought not to have been considered their equal in beauty. But the smooth planes of her face held the attention of everyone in the room.
Without warning, Iolanta shot out a hand and pushed aside the gauze of the girl's dress, squeezing her breast. The girl gasped sharply, and Iolanta smiled. "Oh yes, they please me," she said, and then she said something in Sachary, probably repeating herself for the benefit of the two girls. The girls both blushed and lowered the
ir eyes, and Iolanta turned to me. "Mynon, do take off your cloak. You'll want to stay a bit." She grinned mischievously, and I obediently removed my hat and cloak and handed them to the proprietor, who withdrew.
"Wine?" Iolanta asked, nodding toward the decanter on the table by the bed. I shook my head; I'd already had plenty at the ball, and I thought Iolanta must have had more than enough as well. She shrugged and kicked off her slippers, then took the hand of the nearest girl and led her over to the bed. Iolanta drew the girl down into a sitting position and leaned forward to kiss her lips. I watched, my arousal growing against my will—what did Iolanta want me to do? I still suspected she planned to make me watch her with the two girls—it was the kind of thing she liked to do, to torment me.
I was so intent on watching Iolanta's hand slipping inside the girl's dress that I did not hear the other girl approach me. She touched my arm and stood before me, her face enquiring. Her breasts pressed against the thin fabric of her gown, and I decided that I didn't care about annoying Iolanta tonight. I rested my hands on the girl's collarbone and slowly pushed the fabric of her gown down off her shoulders, revealing her perfect breasts. The room was warm from the roaring fire in the hearth, but her nipples stood up sharply. She smelled of honey and jasmine.
I glanced over at Iolanta. The other girl was now unlacing her gown, and Iolanta lay back on the bed, watching me. I kept my eyes on her as I moved my hands down over the breasts of the girl in front of me, and heard the heady sound of her breathing growing heavier. I had fondled the breasts of many a young girl, but none had ever felt so ripe, so warm as those I touched under the queen's gaze.
The girl on the bed had finished unlacing Iolanta's dress, and Iolanta stood and let it fall to the ground. I inhaled sharply when I saw that she wore nothing underneath it—no chemise, no layers of petticoats as she normally would have worn. The knowledge that she had been so clad all during the ball, while she danced and flirted with the ambassadors, while she pressed herself against me during the waltz, inflamed my senses. I saw Iolanta's satisfied smile, and knew my reaction had been exactly her intention.