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I have never claimed to be a saint.
To be perfectly frank, I never claimed to be much of a good person at all, as I told you right from the start. But you, my sweet Andren, have never quite believed me. Oh, you've had your eyes opened. In the two years since I stole you away in the dead of night--you see, those childhood stories about me were true--you've seen what I am capable of. Great things, I hope, as well as vile. And you have adjusted. You have accustomed yourself to your new circumstances, to the reality that you share a bed with a murderer a thousand times over, while the only thing you've ever killed is a bug. And I daresay you've tortured yourself more over that than I have over all the rest.
But whatever the rest, you believe in one thing: my love for you. You would insist on calling it that, though 'love' is never a word I use, nor will use, because I'm still not sure what it means and I don't want to look like an idiot if I mispronounce it. This is also why I have never attempted to learn another language. But for you, 'love' is an easy word, one that effortlessly rolls off your lips each morning and night. And you believe in it. It is a reality for you.
However wicked I am, however many throats I've cut, however many stations I overpower (always in the name of a higher cause, you are quick to point out), you take solace in the fact that I return to you at night and hold you close. That I can say, without fear of mistake, that I love the scent of your hair and the press of your body. You are happy because, out of everyone in the system at my disposal, I have chosen you, and allowed you to choose me in return. Yes. You believe that this is love. I'm not so sure.
And whatever it is we have--do you believe it began with love, as well? Of course you do, no matter what I've told you. Then again, I've never told you the truth.
I never will, either. I'm not stupid. You wouldn't take it well if I told you that in the beginning you were a game only: a charming, silly game, yes, but one I gave a vicious edge. Make no mistake, when I realized you were attracted to me, I wasted no time in attempting to debauch you as thoroughly as possible. (Two years, and I have not yet succeeded.) Can you blame me? I was bored to death, tired of gardening--dear God, the endless gardening--broken only by looking at the stars. "Restless" doesn't even begin to describe it. And you really were tempting, so unconscious of your loveliness, of how striking you could be if you just took a little time and care with your appearance and bearing.
And of course there was your father to consider. Your father, whose competent Imperial forces--a rarity then, and rarer still now--had slaughtered my troops without mercy: who sat sick and trusting at that humiliating banquet, exposing his naked throat to the open air while I was forced to kneel by your side. Might there have been an element of vengeance in deflowering his daughter, so lonely and vulnerable and unprotected? No "might be" about it. Now that, that was a turn-on. Your birth and your beauty, and perhaps your fecklessness: I thought that was the whole of your appeal, at first.
Well. Perhaps I am a little stupid, after all.
Make no mistake, you are precious to me. You matter more to me than any other human being I have ever met or remember. You matter enough that I compromised years of planning in order to storm your father's station in a ludicrous gesture and snatch you into my den, simply because I hadn't slept well without your warm, slight weight at my side. I honestly don't know what I was thinking, except that your absence was an unendurable lack that had to be remedied posthaste. As soon as you were in my arms again, I realized, to my surprise, that I'd always intended to return for you. And that, is that love? It sounds incredibly selfish to me, and you would tell me--in your hopelessly earnest way--that love isn't meant to be selfish. Love, to you, is some pie-in-the-sky feeling, pure and perfect.
And yet here I am, lingering alone in a lounge on Ceti Station Three and hungrily watching the limbs and curves of a slave girl. She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.
In two years, I have taken no lover but you. This is unprecedented for me. Not that I'm a rampaging monster of carnality: I didn't exactly have harems lying around before you arrived, and I'm not some oversexed young buccaneer. But I've never been monogamous, either. The slave girls--never a free woman, never, until you--pleased me for a few nights, and were then sent on their way. If they pleased me well, sometimes I even freed them. There was no attachment. They were beautiful, fuckable, and that was all. If I felt the need, I called someone to suffice it, and then sent her away. I never stuck with the same woman for a month, let alone two years.
I think it's starting to wear on me.
Don't misunderstand me, my dear. I have never known anyone like you, and I know that no one can do for me what you do. I've known slave girls, yes: like sweet clouds of incense or potent glasses of wine, pleasing but ultimately only a distraction. I have never allowed myself to be distracted for long. I've never kept anything around that dulled my judgment.
But then I met you. The slave girls, lissome and perfumed and well-trained, were incense and wine; you were fresh air and cool, clean water. A distraction, to be sure, but life-giving and sustaining in a way I had never known before. Something essential, something I needed to have and still need to have. Something that has me in return.
But I'm only human, and as a human, after a while I start missing the taste of wine, no matter how cool and pure the water is. I get tired of all this bracing fresh air and just want to sink back on a cushion and breathe in the incense for a while. So you might say I'm a wee bit restless again.
And more than that. If I possess you, then you possess me as well. Our power over one another is disturbingly…equal. I'm not used to equal. I don't like equal. My success is largely due to the fact that I have never tolerated an equal even in my general vicinity. And now, watching this beautiful woman who is obliged to indulge my every whim, to follow my every command without question, I find myself wishing for someone who is not my equal.
She sees me watching. She's a bold one; she tilts her head to the side, and lets her green eyes--yours are huge and dark--blink at me. Golden skin, green eyes, tawny hair. Magnificent. She's one of those girls who has trained as a dancer. I can tell by the way she moves. I can imagine her dancing around me, clad only in a few silk scarves, teasing me until I tire of being teased. That was always a delightful scenario, and one formerly not limited to fantasy. Then--she really is bold--she saunters forward, keeping her eyes on the ground, only occasionally flashing them at me. Eyes as green as emeralds.
She draws closer, and there it is: the scent of incense. She drops to her knees and presses her forehead to the ground.
"Good evening," I drawl. Boldness sometimes pleases me. It does tonight. You are so rarely bold.
"Good evening, Your Majesty," she murmurs to the floor. 'Your Majesty.' My own folk have called me that for years. Soon enough, the whole system will. The knowledge intoxicates me. Like wine. I am so very, very close to my goal.
I reach out and stroke my fingers through her hair. As soft as a silken scarf. It would feel as good as that--it would feel better--on my skin. "Do you dance, Slave?"
'Slave.' How you abhor that title, which we use as a name.
"I do, Your Majesty," she says and, without bidding, raises her face to gaze into mine. I can see no imperfection there.
"And what else do you do?" I say, and wonder, in the back of my mind, if I am really about to do this. If I am about to bed another for the first time in two years.
Well, why shouldn't I? You are my lover, not my official consort. We are not married, you and I. And even if we were, who are you to gainsay my desires? Who is anyone? I have my needs. And given who I am, given what I must accomplish, I think it's only fair that they be attended to. I am not like ordinary people.
"I will do anything you desire, Your Majesty," she replies. A rote response, and yet it thrills me. This girl is entirely in my power, in a way you have never been since you said, "Will you really not let me go?" This girl cannot ask me anything of the kind, and wouldn't dare. She's not my equal. Not in the least.
Gold studs shine in her earlobes, gold bangles clink around her wrists and ankles. Kohl rims her enormous eyes. Her top is filmy and slit nearly down to the navel; her skirt is little more than a loincloth. What a pretty piece she is. She is petite, shorter than you, but her legs are lean, and her whole body is beautifully neat and compact. It would fit well beneath mine. I know exactly how I would hold her down, splay her, use her. And something about those eyes, the pout of those lips, tells me that I would not be disappointed.
She's not the first I've ogled. I've been quite…restless in the last month. Perhaps it's because we hurtle so quickly towards the completion of my grand design. Perhaps I just have a lot of nervous energy. But of all the women I've watched, she is the loveliest, the most tempting.
"Anything?" I inquire.
"With joy," she says. It's probably not much of an exaggeration. The chance to service the pirate queen would rocket her to the top of her set. Who wouldn't want to spread for me? Or let me spread for them? I don't have to force these girls, even if they are slaves. Not at all.
This time I caress her chin. Her skin is petal-soft. Not a trace of dirt anywhere. Not a single stray leaf. Her enormous eyes fall shut, her lashes moving like butterflies over her cheeks.
Then, all at once, I imagine your face before me. I see your brown eyes, so faithful and true, widen with incomprehension at the scene--and then with dawning horror. Just like they did on the day I left you, on my last day as a slave, when I saw your heart break right in front of me as I told you I was going away. When you realized I was abandoning you, who had only ever sought to love me, to give me a better and safer life than the one you thought I'd led. And you weren't far wrong.
In my mind's eye, I see your cheeks go pale, I see you bite your lip, I see you looking every which way just so you don't have to meet my eyes anymore. I see you twist and wring your hands. I see you wondering why, yet again, you were not worth enough for someone to keep.
I see you leave. I see you leaving me. Because, tired of being left, you would leave first. I am certain of that.
"Go," I say, my voice thick and heavy in my own ears. The slave looks up at me in surprise, and then in fear--has she offended? I turn away from her and wave my hand irritably. I hear the soft padding sounds of her sandaled feet as she scurries away.
I shall have her transferred to another station. If I'm not strong enough to resist temptation, then better to remove it.
I stand up, move to look out of the window of the lounge, and try to find peace in the sight of my Crown Lily in the main docking bay. My heart is beating with astonishing rapidity, so hard that my body actually shakes from it, harder even than it does in battle. That was close--I almost--I nearly--
I didn't. I did not betray the only person in the universe who would never, will never betray me. Today I have mastered myself in order to protect what I cannot afford to lose. Even if it does leave the bitter taste of denial in my mouth. Who are you to deny me anything, even without knowing it?
Supremely grouchy, I return to my ship, and from there to our quarters. You're bound to be digging around in the garden, so I should have a few hours of peace and quiet before I assemble my generals tonight for the strategy meeting. I need it. I'm out of sorts and could use a glass of--what else?--wine. Or perhaps something stronger.
But as the door to our quarters closes, I hear you moving around in the bedroom. I sigh. So much for solitude.
"Mír?" you call, your happy, inquisitive tone so different from that of the purring slave. "Is that you?"
Is it me? Who else would it be? Nobody else can get in without your permission, for God's sake. But I tamp my grumbling down and say only, "Of course," as I head for the bedchamber.
"Oh, good!" you say. "I was hoping you'd come back before tonight. I was poking around the station shops today and I saw something that made me think of you, so I--hey, did you know that nobody will ever let me pay for anything?"
In spite of myself, I smile. At the end of the day you are, in fact, adorable. "Astonishing," I reply as I enter the room. You're nowhere to be seen, but then I realize you are rummaging around in the bathroom.
"I mean, I would," you say plaintively from behind the door. "You'd think after two years people would know I have good credit." I nearly laugh. "But I don't even have to tell them I'm with you. Everybody just…knows."
Of course they know. I circulated your picture within hours of your arrival on my ship, so that all could see who you were, and would understand that if you came to grief, then the one who committed it would be a long time dying. I do the same thing each time we move to a new station or world. And you never, ever travel beyond this ship without being discreetly trailed by a member of my Honor Guard. Not a spy, but a protector: it is other people I don't trust. And I will not let you come to harm.
Shouldn't this be enough for you? Shouldn't this be proof of my affection, above and beyond some silly notion of fidelity or monogamy? Would it really be such a horrible infraction if I just found some pretty woman to fuck and got it out of my syst--
"Well, anyway," you say, and emerge from the bathroom, peeking shyly at me from beneath the fall of your hair. My eyes go wide.
You are wearing a gown such as you have never worn before: wine-red and low-cut, offering up your creamy skin and your full breasts to me like gifts. The gown is made of silk and chiffon, and it flutters and clings to you like a lover. You wear no jewelry, no ornaments or gems, save for your two bright, dark eyes.
I'm frozen in place. You bite your lip and smile hopefully at me. "You like it?" you say, and pluck self-consciously at the filmy skirt. "The lady said it was a nice fit." The who? "She said it was a nice color on me, too." The 'lady'? "She was really helpful," you add, and all I can think is, someone else has seen you like this? Someone's eyes have touched you, and this sight is not for me alone? You have paraded yourself like a slave girl?
"I just saw it in a window and I thought it was really pretty," you continue, heedless of what you are provoking. I'm having a hard time breathing. "I mean, I'm not all that sure I pull it off, but--"
Then you look at me and blink. I wonder what you see in my eyes; evidently it causes you to blush. "Do you like it?" you whisper again, and draw closer to me, reach out to touch my arms, to take my hands.
"Where have you worn it?" I ask through numb lips.
"Huh?" You blink again. "Just here. Well, I mean, I tried it on in the store, but I don't think I could walk around the ship wearing this." You giggle, and then your eyes widen. "Um--I mean, you don't want me to, do you?"
I crush you to me, I kiss you so hard it probably hurts, I grab great handfuls of the silk and rub it all over your skin. Oh, God. You are naked beneath. You squeak and kiss me back. That's a good start, but it's only a start. I'm about to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for a--
You place your hands on my shoulders, and pull your mouth away from mine. I moan, but you gently push at me, step out of my embrace. You are blushing brilliantly, like one of your roses, and you drop your eyes as you raise your shaking fingers to the nape of your neck. Once again, I cannot move.
"There's, there's a clasp," you murmur, and look back up at me with your shy smile. "Do you want me to…?" I can't speak. I nod dumbly. "Okay," you whisper, and pop open this invisible clasp. The halter top falls open, burgundy silk collapsing around your pearly skin, revealing your breasts. Exquisite, luscious--I remember the first time I saw them, when I pressed you up against that tree and showed you what your body could do.
This time I won't be stopped. This time, when I haul you to me, I complete the act by throwing us both down on the bed. You beam up at me, bright as daylight, and say, "You do like it!" before threading your fingers into my hair. Your voice bubbles with delight. You're not wearing any perfume, but I smell you, getting wetter and more ready by the second, headier than any incense.
I drag you to the edge of the bed and shove up your skirt. Then I drop to my knees, part your legs, and drink. Fresh water and wine, one and the same. I drink until my face is wet with it and you're shrieking. I feel you flutter, I feel you clench around my tongue, I hear you give one final cry, and then I feel it too--that deep throb and swallow inside me, that sublime spasm of pleasure, and I have to stop and pant against your thigh until I'm done.
I marvel at it: I can still come just from fucking you. I remember the first time it happened, which, not coincidentally, was that time I had you against the tree. How it shocked me. It should probably have clued me in, though. I should have known what I was getting myself into, that this was a game I could not win, and that when I tried to stop--after you first told me, foolishly, that you loved me--I was bound to fail. How could I resist this? Resist you?
"Oh golly," you whimper, and I laugh breathlessly against your thigh before standing up on shaky knees. I have knelt before you. Before no one but you. And seeing you lying here on our bed--legs spread, half-naked, sweaty, bare breasts heaving--I know I would do it again in a heartbeat.
I am not finished with you yet. I slide my arms around your waist, lift you, drag you into the middle of the vast mattress. You put your arms around my neck and murmur agreeably, dazed with passion. You kiss my sticky cheek and give me a muzzy, happy smile, brilliant with innocence. And how do you pull that off, I want to know. How is it that you can submit with such glee to anything I ask of you in bed, no matter how outrageous, and still remain pure as the snow? How is it that you're you, why can't I work you out, why can't I ever get to the bottom of you no matter what I do--
I drive my fingers inside you as if I'm trying to do exactly that. You arch up and moan, biting your lip. You are tender down here now, raw and sensitive, but that's just too bad. And as you writhe and wriggle on my fingers, I think that you don't mind too much.
"M-m-mír," you sob, giving me my name. Not 'Your Majesty.' You never call me that, even in front of others. (Although once you called me 'Assistant' in bed and got very embarrassed.) What you are to me, I am to you as well. Equal. And you love me.
I will never let you go.
I told you that, too. You didn't really believe me then, and I'm sure that you still don't. I've never denied you anything before. But in moments like this, when we are so wholly together, I know that I will never allow you to be parted from me, because you are the only thing I cannot lose. And if you left--if you tried to leave--there is no place in the Empire I would leave untouched, no metropolis or scrubby outpost I would not turn inside-out, no world I would not rip apart, to find you. I would hunt you with my last breath.
And when I found you, I'd bring you back to me, and welcome you home as gently as if you'd just returned from a stroll. Because just as you are the only person I can't lose, you are the only person I can't hurt. I've hurt you before. I know what it's like. I cannot do it again.
So it really will save us all a lot of time and effort if I keep my hands to myself and give you no reason to go anywhere. A sensible solution, I think. And then I give up being sensible and sink with joy into the smell of your hair and the press of your body. Why should I want more than this? "So perfect," I moan, as I always do, as I've never said to anyone but you. "So beautiful."
"Mír," you whisper again, as you open yourself, submit to me, and give me my will.
Andy stared up at the ceiling while Mír rested her head on Andy's shoulder. Her breath grew slow and even as she stroked Andy's bare arm possessively; eventually, her strokes slowed down too, and her body sagged against Andy's in sleep. She'd clearly worn herself out, and no wonder. She'd been pushing herself so hard these last few months as the rebel fleet pressed in ever closer to the homeworld, ever closer to victory and dominion. She needed the rest. Andy would wake her up before she had to go meet with her generals later (that was tonight, wasn't it, at eight? Or nine?). In the meantime, Andy stroked her hair, and tried to slow down her own breathing as well.
So the dress had been a hit. Andy smiled happily at nothing in particular. It had been good to shake up the routine a little bit. Good to do something Mír hadn't expected. Of course, over the past two years, Andy had been making an effort at being more interesting generally--reading about politics and military strategy and stuff, instead of just books about plants and science. She wanted to be a part, however small, of the air Mír lived and breathed, even if it just meant she didn't stare blankly when Mír started talking about attack formations or the stupidity of the Imperial Parliament. She was pretty sure it was working. Mír seemed pleased, anyway, whenever Andy ventured a comment in return to one of her diatribes, even if Andy wasn't exactly one of the expert tacticians she kept around.
As for the whole thing with the slave girls, well, that was kind of the same, Andy guessed. There were certainly women hanging around who were more exotic and sexy than Andy. But Mír didn't have it in her to stray. When she decided to do something, she committed herself fully to it; Andy had realized that pretty fast, once she'd gotten used to living on the ship.
She'd realized a lot of things. People thought Andy was oblivious, that she didn't know what was going on right under her nose. But Andy could see when Mír's eyes roamed to a pretty, half-naked girl, and she could hear people's whispers too. And even though only Mír's eyes roamed, and the whispers remained whispers, it was still hurtful. Andy didn't want to be boring in bed as well as out of it. She wanted to keep Mír happy so she wouldn't regret doing what she'd set out to do.
Besides, it had been a lot of fun. Andy didn't think she could dress all the way like a slave girl. Not with bangles and loincloths and all that stuff. She'd feel like an idiot, and Mír would see through it in a heartbeat. But she'd felt sort of delightfully naughty when she'd tried on the low-cut dress, and even the sweet old lady in the shop had given her a knowing wink. Naughty was fun. Apparently Mír would like her to be naughty more often. Andy could probably handle that. They'd both enjoyed it, after all. Judging by the soreness between Andy's legs, Mír had really enjoyed it.
Good. Andy could give Mír what she wanted, what she enjoyed. Looked like she was pretty good at it. Better than anybody else, even, because when you got right down to it, Mír had settled on Andy when she could have left her back on her dad's station and zipped around the system with all the pretty women she liked. But Mír had liked Andy instead. Needed her, even: she'd said so. Loved her, too--Andy had figured out that much long ago, even if Mír still refused to say it out loud.
Andy rolled her eyes. Mír thought she was so smart, but when it came to some stuff she really was as dumb as a rock. Well, it was a darn good thing she had Andy around to look after her and keep her happy. Nobody else, Andy knew--from observing Mír, observing others who had known her for years, observing like a scientist--nobody else had ever made Mír as happy as Andy did. Which made Andy feel great. Made her feel powerful, even. Yeah. Not that she was going to let it go to her head or anything, but when somebody loved you this much, you did have power over them, didn't you?
Andy grinned again at the ceiling. That was pretty neat. She petted Mír's head, and laughed softly when Mír, still asleep, cuddled closer and muttered under her breath. She always slept well with Andy. Good thing, too, with all this stress. Andy would definitely let her rest until her meeting at nine. Or was it ten?
Fin.