This story is a little…different? It contains scenes of rough sex and threats, but no real violence. Also the lines of consent are a little blurry as well, so if that worries you, you might want to skip this one.
I was king when the lilies were in full bloom. And as they shed their petals so too did the kingdom shed its old skin and in what amounted to a handful of instants I became a relic. I could tell you that I was a righteous king and that my deposition was a great injustice. I could tell you these things.
The people found a champion in the third son of a cousin who had died before I was a man. A man whose words were sweet.
I reside now in a tower under guard at all times. I eat what I am given and I read whatever scraps they allow me in order to keep myself from screaming.
I am visited on occasion by the new king who wears his crown and his grin askew. He wears his sword at all times and balls his fists when he speaks.
He enters and says, “Hello, Old King.”
He says this though I have barely reached my thirtieth year. I respond, “hello, Your Highness.”
“What do you think of my kingdom?” He asks.
“It flourishes under your rule, Your Highness.”
“You flatter me,” he says.
“You demand it,” I say.
“And do you know why?”
“Because powerful men need to feel powerful or else they doubt themselves. Doubt is the enemy of power.”
He applauds with icy condescension as if listening to a simpleton pontificate or watching a monkey perform an uninspired trick. His gaze is full of hatred, yes, but there’s something else as well. He looks around the room, and says, “these walls no longer bear your standard. This carpet reeks of mold and old flesh. Your hair grows gray and thin. I wonder why you haven’t consider some release from this? We have never barred your windows. I would think, at least, that a man with even some small courage would make attempt.”
I am quiet. I wait to see what this is really about.
“Have you arranged yourself for my visit?”
Without missing a beat, I respond, “I have readied myself, Your Highness.”
The king unbuckles his belt and allows his sword to clatter to the ground. He is no warrior. A warrior would never allow his weapon to be so ill treated. But he is powerful, so I suppose it matters little.
I climb to my knees to prepare for what comes next. I have a secret to admit at this point: it is the fact that my internment is so remote, the fact that I have not seen a friendly face in nearly two years that allows me to suffer these indignities. The deeper secret, the one that I refuse to admit aloud and shudder to record on paper is that as far as I have fallen, my pulse quickens when his sword falls. At first I told myself that I would draw it up and kill him with it. After two years I have disabused myself of that notion.
He fishes himself out of his clothes and he hangs it above my face like a noose. It’s rigid with excitement. I try not to think before going to it, engaging it with enough eagerness to avoid retribution. He uses my mouth roughly, refuses to relent even when I am choking and tears are streaming down the side of my face. Finally he pushes me away with his foot and I collapse backward, gasping.
He descends on me like a madman and holds my throat with one hand while he positions himself against me and forces his way into my hole with the other. I have prepared for this like I prepare every day whether he visits or not. I slicken my cunt with oils that are provided for me and I make sure that I am clean whenever he might visit. Days might pass or weeks, but I am diligent in my regimen because I know what punishments will ensue if I am not.
I was once king, but he fucks me like I am nothing. He stares into my face, one hand around my throat and the other tugging painfully at my member. He spits at me and hurls the worst invectives his twisted mind can conjure.
There is pleasure in it. It’s complicated and ugly, but there is pleasure in it.
“Beg for your king’s seed,” he whispers. And somehow it is worse than a shout. I have lived at this man’s mercy for nearly two years and I have learned that his whisper is intimate, and terrible.
“Please fill me with your seed, my king.”
“I could kill you,” he says. His thrusts grow more insistent, deeper. I squirm away and he hones into my discomfort, pushes harder, holds his hand around my throat tighter. “I could erase you from this world and no one would shed a tear for you.”
“You are mine,” he says. This sends an ambigious shiver through my entire body. “You are mine.”
The king cums inside me and chokes me so hard that I see stars. His erratic, uncomfortable jerking yields fruit and I follow with my own orgasm. When it’s done he wraps his other hand, still wet with my seed, around my neck. He presses firmly, but the killing malice is gone. He pulls out of me, but remains on top of me, above me.
“It is disgusting how you let yourself be used like an animal. How you let me climb on top of you.”
“I am sorry, your highness. Forgive me,” I say, reciting lines from a half-hearted script as his fluids leak out of me.
In the quiet that follows, when I can hear him breathing, I think of kingship. I could tell you that I miss it; that I miss having men and women hang on my every word and live or die by my decree. I could tell you that this tower was a more terrible prison than the throne. I could tell you these things.