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In the Imperial Court

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Trixie and Jupe are cocooned on the couch, a voluminous coverlet over them as the big-screen TV blares a sea-battle between two sailing ships.

Mart comes down from the loft, followed closely by Ben. “We’re going to be in the shower,” Mart announces. “You weren’t planning to do the dinner dishes in the next half-hour or so, were you?”

“They’re done,” Trixie answers, more focused on the laughing pirate captain than her brother.

“Better turn up the volume,” Jupe mutters as the bathroom door closes behind them. “You know what they’re like when they get in there!”

Mart and his partner have discovered a mutual enjoyment for role-playing. A while back, Mart had happened to mention that Ben’s ministrations while they were showering were like a geisha’s. Ben had been so captivated by the idea that on his next venture into L.A., he’d sought out two grand silk robes and presented them to Mart as an anniversary gift.

Garbed in dark blue silk patterned with silver phoenixes and black silk drawstring pants, Mart takes on a surprisingly noble demeanor. He preens on being addressed as “Your Imperial Majesty”. It delights him to command his humble subject to pleasure him as he desires.

Meanwhile, Ben has on a silver silk kimono--very short!--adorned with red cranes. It covers a tiny pair of silver silk shorts. He is the Emperor’s humble concubine. He’s discovered that he loves to be bossed around--he trusts Mart absolutely, the worst thing that may happen is that he’ll have to delay satisfaction until the monarch is ready to permit it.

The concubine carefully helps the Emperor to disrobe, then swiftly adds his own garments to the hook on the back of the door. He adjusts the temperature of the water carefully, then steps deferentially back, allowing the noble monarch to precede him.

Once they’re in there, Mart breaks character just a little. He knows exactly how Ben likes to be caressed; that helps him get into character, gives his inner geisha a thrill…

Indeed, in a few moments the concubine has a sponge in hand and ministers to his emperor. Standing beneath the cascade of warm water, the soapy sponge scented with something spicy gliding over his skin…his Imperial Majesty is feeling very well kowtowed to indeed.

From time to time, he offers soft commands. They’ve done this often enough that they’ve smoothed out the details. Ben doesn’t speak unless he’s directly addressed as “concubine” and then only if asked a question.

The concubine kneels in front of his Emperor, water pelting down his back as he reverently polishes the imperial scepter. It’s an honor to be allowed to touch the Emperor so intimately, when he knows he is but a humble servant of his Imperial Majesty….

He could stay in sub-space for hours, but the hot water won’t last forever and they both know it. Still, he savors the steamy chamber as the Emperor towers over him. He does as he is bidden, loving both the act of serving and the One he serves. The light touch of the Emperor’s hand on the back of his head is a benediction…he breathes slowly through his nose, knowing he must master his own reflexes to better please his Master.

“Enough!” says his Imperial Majesty, and his humble concubine leans back, not looking directly at him. “You may dress me in my robes now.”

First, he must dry the Imperial Majesty, gently blotting away the moisture with a clean, fluffy towel. Next, the robe and trousers cover the Emperor’s magnificence. (At this point, the concubine hastily dries himself, altogether more vigorously than he did the monarch, and dons his more modest robes.)

By this time, Jupe and Trixie have both learned not to look too closely at the procession of silk-clad individuals exiting the bathroom, one following the other at a respectful distance of three paces. At the same time, the Emperor and his concubine are ostentatiously focused on getting upstairs and taking no notice of the fact that the only part of Trixie visible from beneath the spread is a mop of sandy curls.

Up in the loft, an old brocade throw has transformed an ordinary office chair into an acceptable throne. The throne room is enhanced with the scent of sandalwood incense, while a CD of temple bells and chanting helps create a mood and mask noise. By common consent, his Imperial Majesty settles himself regally upon that seat and the concubine, on his knees, makes his way to the monarch’s feet.

“You have the Keys to the Kingdom?” demands the monarch, and the concubine, eyes downcast, allows the bells to ring softly before closing his hand around them once more. To ensure that he has a means of communicating without breaking character, the pleasure-servant clutches the small string of bells They’d started out with a ring of actual keys, but the little brass bells are more in keeping with the ambiance they aspire to; He’ll ring the bells if he needs to pause or speak, and drop or throw them if he wants to stop. So far, he has never dropped or thrown them.

“Part my robes,” orders the Emperor. “I require your mouth. Not your tongue, merely your mouth.”

It is his Imperial Majesty’s great pleasure to feel the heat of his concubine’s mouth engulfing him. He delights in the gentle pressure of his servant’s lips, the sensation of hot flesh touching him without stimulating him beyond the mere mechanics of breathing. Occasionally, he will use that willing mouth, burying himself in it and holding the dark head so that it must consume all of him. On a very few nights, the concubine has presented the Keys to the Kingdom and been allowed up for air. On the whole, though, the concubine is highly skilled at giving himself completely to his Emperor.

Tonight, while enjoying the oral attentions, his Imperial Majesty has a yen for a different sort of pleasure. “Kneel up!” he commands, and the concubine sits back, still on his knees, heels against his buttocks.

There’s a dreamy smile on his face. He doesn’t look directly at the face of his Emperor--that would be bold--but the Emperor gazes down at the subservient one with a fond smile. No matter how often they play this game, neither of them has begun to tire of it.

“Procure His Imperial Majesty’s Treasure.”

On hands and knees, the pleasure-servant scurries to retrieve the ornate box they keep certain special items in. He presents it on his outstretched palms, head bowed.

His Imperial Majesty reviews the contents for a moment, deciding upon the activities to come. Has his concubine’s breathing quickened slightly? Perhaps he, too, is thinking of the delights contained within and of past occasions when he surrendered to their use. What’s this? Something new has been added to the chest’s paraphernalia since it was last brought out! This is bold, indeed! The Emperor is not displeased.

“Remove your robe.” The concubine does so, still wearing that enigmatic smile. “And those. You shall offer yourself naked before me.”

There are a pair of little clips, laden with bells and chains and the Imperial Majesty attaches them carefully so they’re suspended from the concubine’s nipples. “Tell me, concubine, is this what you want?” He gives the chain the briefest of tugs, and is rewarded with a soft gasp.

“I am Your Majesty’s, to do with as He will,” answers the humbly kneeling figure, utterly, deliciously naked save for the clips and their dependents.

“Very good,” the Emperor says with approval. In truth, the ornaments so displayed on the tanned, muscular chest of his servant excite him. Clearly, his plaything is also affected, for he is fully erect, and it is the Emperor’s wish that he remain so. He clasps the straining phallus with a snug band to counter his humble one’s release.

A vial in the chest adds cinnamon notes to the scents already in the throne room. The concubine whines quietly at the fiery heat as the Imperial Majesty introduces it to his tender rosebud. The low sounds of his discomfort blends with the chanting.

“Kneel up.”

Look at him--his pupils are blown, he’s deep within the bliss this surrender gives him. Abandoning himself to his monarch’s will frees him, and the power that monarch knows he has is intoxicating. But he is a just ruler; there is nothing he will do to betray his subject’s trust in him.

“Stand and bend over the bed, palms flat, legs spread. Wide--wider than that! Good.” This allows for the difference in their heights. He makes sure that a tiny bit of the cinnamon oil is included in the lube he uses to prepare his pleasure-servant, who is leaning over the foot of the bed, facing the narrow mirror over the headboard.

The concubine squirms and gasps, the chains and tiny bells tinkling as he writhes. The Emperor admires them, playing with them for a moment, teasing and tantalizing the bowed figure.

At last, when he deems his subject is wrought up to a suitably fevered pitch, he dons a prophylactic and lubes it well.

Ah, yes! His plaything is so snug, every time is as good as the first! He works himself in, deeper and deeper, the concubine uttering little noises, inspiring his Imperial Majesty to bury his scepter into the willing body with greater vigor. The crescendo approaches. “Tell me, my concubine,” pants the Emperor, leaning forward to gasp in the other man’s ear, “Do you desire release?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty!”

His Imperial Majesty reaches down and swiftly pulls the constricting band loose. At the same time, he thrusts more emphatically, and the concubine shrieks.

As the tight portal clenches around him, the Emperor groans and gives in to his climax.

“Onto the bed,” he breathes, when he’s capable of saying anything.

The Emperor arranges himself back into the nest of pillows heaped against the headboard. He gathers the concubine into his arms, wrapped in the silken folds of his robe. One thing he’s learned is, orgasm doesn’t mean the end of the scene, not for his subject. It’s important to let him come out of it his own way.

Really, the bells and chains are a wonderful addition to their game. His imperial Majesty unfastens the first clip, lightly circling the tight nipple with his finger. He shakes the chain gently, pulling the other nipple taut for a moment before releasing it and placing the pretty hardware on the bedside table. He spends a moment playing with both nipples, which he suspects are excruciatingly sensitive.

His pleasure-servant hasn’t yet relinquished the Keys to the Kingdom, so the Emperor continues the proper forms of address until he's ready to come out of it. “I highly approve of the additions to the Imperial Treasure,” he muses. “And yourself, my concubine? Was their use all you had hoped when you procured them?”

“Indeed, Your Imperial Majesty," is the drowsy answer. "Highly satisfactory.”

Downstairs, the pirate movie is mostly background noise. Trixie and her beau are playing a game of their own, of pirate captain and captive wench. The captive is having a delightful time discovering why the captain his known as “Peg-Leg Jones”, and she has disappeared completely The motion of the coverlet is rather suggestive of the motion of a ship rocking. “Oh, Captain, my Captain,” she murmurs.

From overhead, there’s an outcry of “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty!”

Jupe turns up the volume to disguise any further outcry. Really, they don’t want to know. “Heave to, my pretty,” he declaims, “and prepare to be boarded.”

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