The King's Pleasure (3 page)

Next to the bed was a table with two soft, high-backed red chairs. The king pulled a chair back for her and she sat, feeling awkward and strange accepting an almost subservient gesture from the top tier of royalty. To hide her discomfort, she focused instead on the two glimmering silver domes on the table.

The king made no comment. He sat across from her and removed the coverings to reveal the food. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted meat, or even vegetables. Mostly her diet had been stale bread, water from a nearby stream, and a few roots and berries.

Even as hungry as she was, she stared at it for a long time, not daring to believe it was real. She was certain she’d soon awaken on the pallet in the corner of the small hut her family shared. But a minute passed and then two, and she didn’t wake up.

“Eat,” he said.

Abigail didn’t have to be told twice. She began tentatively, dipping a piece of the bread in the sauce drizzled over the vegetables. She looked up, unsure if this was improper, but he didn’t seem fazed or bothered by how she ate.

A soft moan escaped her lips. She’d never had food this good. The weakness that had eternally lived inside each muscle was fading already—even with just a few bites of truly good food. If he fed her like this every day she could imagine having energy and vitality, actually feeling good for a change, instead of like an old hag trapped in the body of a much younger woman.

When she finally finished the meat and vegetables, she looked up to find the king had been finished for awhile. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, observing her.

“Thank you, Master,” she said almost automatically. Giving him the address he wanted was so easy, so natural to her that she briefly fantasized belonging to him had somehow been her destiny. She had a feeling she’d be thanking him for every little crumb he threw her way.

The king pushed his chair back, and Abigail’s gaze followed as he went to the bed, her eyes widening at the sight of the clothing. She’d been so hungry she hadn’t noticed it. It must have been brought in with the food.

She’d seen slave girls dancing for the last king during festivals held in the open square. But she’d only seen the women from a distance, always careful to stay hidden on the fringes so she wouldn’t be spotted by the gypsy-hating monarch. She’d been in love with the garments the harem wore from the moment she first saw them glistening in the brightness of the day.

The tops were like the fancy ladies’ undergarments Abigail had heard the rich women wore under their dresses. They were encrusted with thousands of colorful beads and tiny jewels that reflected brilliantly in the sunlight making them look like goddesses. The tops cinched their breasts together, displaying ample cleavage. Their bellies had been bare with a single gold and diamond chain that went around each of their waists.

The chain wasn’t merely decorative. It displayed their status, that they were the personal property of the king and only to be touched by others with his permission, which he tended to give freely to nobles and visiting dignitaries. The rumor was that the slaves liked being passed around. And why shouldn’t they? No one inside the upper echelon of the kingdom had ever been brainwashed with the idea that sex or nudity was dirty or shameful, or even particularly private.

Just below the navel was a similarly bead and jewel-encrusted belt. From the bottom of the belt hung hundreds of strands of beads and jewels, along with a few ribbons of rich brocade fabric interspersed at various intervals in between. When they moved, their legs cut through the strands of beads and fabric like a parting curtain. On their wrists and ankles were matching gold and diamond chains. Their throats remained bare of ornamentation because only the noble free women wore necklaces.

When she was a little girl, before she’d really understood who these women were and what they did for the king, she’d wanted to be one of them. Her father had gotten angry, saying that no gypsy woman would ever debase herself in such a manner, no matter how honored the position was in the local culture.

She’d never mentioned it again, feeling shame rather than the old awe whenever she caught a glimpse of the women.

The garment and jewelry on the king’s bed was a jade green that would bring out her eyes. He picked up the clothing and draped it carefully over a chaise lounge in the corner.

“You will wear this tomorrow. Someone will attend to your bath and help you dress after breakfast. Tonight you’ll have no need for clothing.”

Abigail swallowed hard around the lump forming in her throat. Of course she’d have no need for clothing.

He offered his hand, and she took it and stood. She held herself still as a statue as he pushed the robe off her shoulders and let it fall in a whoosh to the floor. Although he’d watched her walk naked to the shower and observed her as she’d bathed for him, there had been an activity for her to focus on then. Now it was just her body and his eyes drinking in her curves.

“Lie down on the bed.”

She carefully climbed the steps beside the ornate bed. She tried not to sigh at how firm yet comfortable it was. The sheets and blankets were so soft, she couldn’t imagine how the king got up in the morning. In her head he was always
the king
. Before he’d taken the throne and had led their people in battles, he’d been
the prince
. She was aware his name was Niall, but she couldn’t bring herself to think of him by anything other than a title. It felt too intimate even lying in his bed.

She wanted to ask what he’d meant by taking care of her family and when he might do it. He could mean anything, but she hoped he intended something benevolent. If they could just get a regular delivery of bread, she’d be grateful. She was afraid one of her brothers or sisters or her parents would get too weak or sick and die without proper nourishment soon. Although she couldn’t help, given the circumstances, she felt guilty they were starving while her belly was full and finally content.

Abigail tried not to gawk as the king undressed. She could never forget he’d led battles or the reputation that had followed him in his conquests. His thighs were thickly corded with muscles, and his stomach, chest, and arms were the same. When he turned away from her, she took in a sharp breath at the impressive expanse of his back. He chuckled in response.

The king had many scars, clearly from battle. One wrapped around his stomach to end at his lower back. It was the type of injury that should have killed him.

Abigail wondered how much worse her situation might be now if he’d died in that battle and a king less merciful had been awakened in the middle of the night by her screams. She couldn’t imagine things would have played out this way. She was still having difficulty reconciling the ideas she’d had about him before, when
the prince
was said to be vicious on the battlefield. She’d imagined someone cruel and unforgiving like his father. Whatever he may be in war, it didn’t seem to extend to his bedroom.

Abigail’s gaze finally landed between his legs. He was already firm and hard, leaving no question as to his desire for her. Although she wasn’t a virgin, the few lovers she’d entertained weren’t as large. He was both longer and had more girth than she remembered encountering, and it made her a little nervous, worried she wouldn’t be able to accommodate him without pain.

When he touched her, it was with such possession that if she’d doubted he truly meant to keep her, she held no such uncertainty now. From the moment his fingers dug into her hip and his mouth closed around her breast, she knew she belonged to him. It wasn’t his pronouncement that made her his, it was the possession in his eyes and in the way in which he held her. It was something inside him that called out to the thing inside her that longed for that possession even as she feared it.

Her fantasies of being one of the king’s women came back now, blooming to life in spite of her father’s disapproval. Only this king wasn’t old and past his prime. He was still young and strong and in control.

If it had been anyone but this man, she might have felt in some way violated, but the certainty of his ownership was so complete and the improved accommodations and food were so drastic, that it didn’t once cross her mind that she was being taken against her will. Her only fear, besides his size, was that it wasn’t real or that he would turn dark and cruel on her. As his fingers kneaded her breast and he kissed the hollow of her neck, those fears began to shrivel and die.

He tore his mouth from her throat. “Open to me.” His voice was a low, commanding growl that she couldn’t imagine not obeying. Her legs fell open and she gasped as fingers pressed inside her, drawing out moisture, then plunging in again for more as if he wanted to coat himself with as much of her as possible.

His invasion was delicious and decadent much as the bath and food had been. The more his fingers squirmed inside her body, the wetter she became in response.

After several minutes of this stimulation, her hips arched off the bed, and she began to pant, seeking her pleasure in earnest. He must have sensed the shift in her reactions, that she was climbing toward her orgasm, because he pulled his fingers away suddenly.

“Not yet, little one. I want you to beg me for it.”

She felt her whole body flush with embarrassment. What was happening between them was mild and probably nothing compared to his dark and perverted appetites, but she hadn’t been trained or raised for this. Why hadn’t he taken a woman who’d been properly trained? Everything about his touch felt richer, darker, more wanton in light of the knowledge that she wasn’t his equal, that she couldn’t just stop things and walk away.

Her other lovers hadn’t teased, nor had they spoken, except prior to the event to whisper the endearments necessary to get her clothes off—the magic incantation to part a woman’s thighs. Men recited it shamelessly to meet their carnal needs. This man would never utter such a pointless litany; he would merely possess what was his to take by divine right.

She looked away, the intensity of the moment becoming too much to tolerate. “Please... I-I can’t.”

The king’s eyes turned stormy. “You can’t? I saved you from amputation, fed you, bathed you, gave you a roof, and you... can’t?” His voice hadn’t risen, but the quiet command and condescending amusement made her afraid. It was as if he found her small rebellion adorable but intended to disabuse her of her notion of choices. No one had choices in the king’s presence. They obeyed or they suffered whatever consequences he deemed appropriate.

Stupid, Abigail.
What did she mean she couldn’t? He could have her executed for looking at him weirdly, and no one in the kingdom would try to stop it. They’d say, “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” and rejoice in the streets.

The king flipped Abigail onto her stomach, startling her. The cry that came out of her mouth wasn’t from the sudden change in position, but from his hand coming down across her ass. He spanked her hard, his hand landing in quick, brutal succession, until she broke and the tears poured out of her.

“Please...please...”

He continued his assault on her flesh until she went boneless, her body giving into it, even if her voice still whimpered and pleaded.

“Good. Now beg for pleasure.”

Abigail still lay on her stomach, in shock, her wet cheek pressed against the bedsheets as he rubbed where he’d just struck her, soothing away the pain.

She closed her eyes. “Please let me come, Master.”

“Was that so hard? I’ll allow it, but you have to be the one to do it, now. Put your hand between your legs and rub yourself for me.”

He adjusted her body so that her ass was raised in the air. Her pussy was exposed, leaving nothing to his imagination, giving him a view that humiliated her. She wondered if he understood she wasn’t raised like this. She hadn’t been indoctrinated into their kingdom’s cultural attitudes about sex. She wasn’t as open and free as the others were. Abigail didn’t know if he even knew, or if he’d care if he did.

“Stroke yourself.” He was becoming impatient.

Though she was embarrassed and a little afraid of him now—as well as what his future sexual demands might be—she slipped her fingers between her thighs to obey. After a few minutes, she forgot the voyeuristic king as she pressed herself harder against her hand, her pleasure mounting higher.

As she touched herself, she perversely replayed the earlier scene in the hallway. She came as she re-imagined the moment he’d revealed he was the king, and she’d knelt and kissed his feet. It was a mystery why that horrid moment was the one that sent her over the edge into completion, but something about that extreme moment of fear heightened all her senses.

She didn’t have time to feel shame or worry about what might be wrong with her, because as soon as she came, he was behind her. His cock shoved past her entry, which had tightened from lack of use. She might have expected her body to recoil in revulsion. Instead, the excited flip in her stomach betrayed her as he buried himself deeper, his, fierce, animalistic thrusts revealing his own recent sexual drought.

He gripped her shoulder as he spilled inside her. His grip was so hard she feared she’d be a bruised mess by morning. As he tried to catch his breath, he said, “Are you sure you weren’t a virgin?”

When she didn’t reply, he rolled over and pulled her against him, covering them both with the blankets. His lips pressed tenderly against her forehead. The moment was fleeting, but she wanted to hold onto it forever.

“Sleep,” he said.

The king was asleep within minutes. For Abigail it took over an hour. It was far too loud inside her head, and she couldn’t shut off the thoughts. The last conscious realization that drifted through her mind was that her bottom was still warm and sore from his hand.

***

After one night with Abby in his bed, Niall found himself already attached. It had been far too long since he’d been with a woman. But that wasn’t the only thing that had made him so possessive of her in such short time. There was something real in her fear and desperation to please him, something that had been missing in the meticulously trained women presented for his harem. He hadn’t felt that spark with any of them, hadn’t felt any real submission. They behaved by rote, like well-trained sexual robots. Maybe another man would have been satisfied with that, but the king hadn’t been.