The Prince of Nahr

A slave to the touch.

“Everything about you is hard. The warrior arms and thighs. The solid planes of your chest, the stark flat belly, all straight lines. A smile reaches your lips. Here there is a curve. Sensuous. I imagine the kiss of a prince, your mouth on mine insistent, your tongue a probe against mine: the first but not last stage of opening me to your will. And still my fingers gently slide, tickling, twisting up and around the shaft. Veins of silver in the moonlight. Ridges of gold for me to find, and touch, and worship.

“Slow. Steady. Intent.

“And your smile breaks out like sun on a summer morning. You sleep still. But you have heard and understood that distant bell.

“Did your wife – rest her soul – ever treat you like this? On the nights you sired your boys, were you stirred in this way? In endless loving devotion? You have done your duty. The line is preserved. You are mine now. No second wives, no foreign princesses, need trouble your golden door.

“And the cock! Did she love it as she should have? Adore it endlessly? Exhaust you with her demands for it? These diplomatic brides, trailing their loveless alliances. You deserve more than you’ve had, I think. Let me show you a path.

“I stretch my hand to its very widest span, but don’t match you. The princes of this land are lucky, it seems. Handsome, yes. Your dark hair slips in waves to the pillow. The years in the saddle have hardened you, and fixed you in stone. The sun has burnished you, so that when you dress the bronze of your armour seems no more than more muscle and skin.”