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Even within the sheltered world of Ushuaia’s grand palace, Anaar heard reports of the oncoming storm. He and the other harem flowers whispered fearfully of the Warlord and his approaching army. The warlord was a demon made flesh and his warriors were dogs that walked like men. They rode across the plains on winged horses. What they could not eat or steal they burned. Cities and kingdoms alike fell to him one by one.
The King of Ushuaia rode out with his army to confront the Warlord on the last day of spring. He and all his sons were slain by midsummer.
Dinazade, the dead King’s most favored flower, wept as she was consoled by her confidants. Anaar, never chosen by the King himself, could only manage a polite mask of sympathy.
News came that their city of Ushuaia would not be razed to the ground. The palace would not be made into their pyre. The Warlord had decided to make Ushuaia and specifically the palace his new home. He would take the crown of the former King and rule as the new monarch. The majority of the court officials would retain their positions. Life would proceed as it had before. The only change would be a new King.
The harem was abuzz with activity and fretful preparations as the Warlord and his army secured the city. Anaar and the other flowers readied themselves in their finest garments, their most delicate perfumes, their richest jewels. Yet the Warlord sent for none of them when he arrived. Hours turned to days, and still the Warlord did not visit the harem or send word to summon any of the flowers.
As the Warlord’s servants meshed with those of the palace, information filtered to the harem. The Warlord did not overindulge in food, drink, or gambling. He kept his clothing simple and his hours of sleep much like that of a man still on military campaign. He witnessed entertainments in the evenings, but did not keep dinner parties late into the night. Though he sometimes cast appreciative looks at comely palace figures, he never reached for them or commanded their appearance in his chambers.
Anaar began to despair of being bound to an ascetic. He knew many would have counted themselves fortunate in such a case. But Anaar was not one to cower and cringe from a powerful man’s touch. The Warlord had earned him, won him … and had yet to claim him. The Warlord simply needed to be shown what was his to have.
While Anaar lacked the intricate networks of older, more established palace figures, he had a few trusted informants. Scattered amongst the kitchens, tailors, couriers, and spa attendants, Anaar could rely on a steady supply of both gossip and proven truths. Two weeks after the Warlord had arrived, one such informant approached Anaar during his daily bath: Vanna. She was a quiet girl with a plump frame and burn marks on her arms. Vanna stoked the fires of the spa and kept the steam at a steady level. Less cautious palace figures often ignored her, thinking her as important and intelligent as a bag of wet laundry. Their contemptuous assumptions were all to Anaar’s benefit, and indeed to Vanna’s.
“The Warlord enjoys a good long soak. Three times now, the girls have found him dozing in one of the baths.” Vanna whispered as she stoked the braziers.
Anaar smiled and nodded his acknowledgement to Vanna. At long last, he could begin to formulate a plan to seduce the Warlord.
~*~
Sherko despaired of his latest conquest. As kingdoms went, Ushuaia was not the worst he had encountered. To the west there had been a realm where two-thirds of the population not only lived in poverty but wore shackles constantly. Then there had been one in the mountains where dozens of citizens were sacrificed to the gods by popular vote in a kind of cruel election.
Ushuaia seemed on the surface to be a relief after those conquests. The working populace struggled but received regular aid during famine. Soldiers were conscripted but paid well. The aqueducts and bathhouses were widespread and of great benefit to public health.
It wasn’t until Sherko had entered the great palace, the seat of power itself, that the cracks began to show. Inside were dozens upon dozens of timid, trembling people, all conditioned to serve and obey any and all commands from their ruler. Worse, the former King had kept a harem: a vast collection of ‘flowers’ expected to live, serve, and die within the palace walls.
On Sherko’s first night in the palace, a beautiful woman visited his bedchamber. The former King’s most favored flower apparently. Sherko had never stirred for a woman of any sort. Lithe or muscular, dark or pale, bold or shy, they were all the same to him. Yet when Sherko sought to dismiss the flower, she fell to her knees and wept, begging for mercy.
A long and arduous conversation finally produced some answers for Sherko about his new home. Members of the harem in Ushuaia served for life. To be found wanting usually resulted in their swift death at the hands of the Royal Executioner … or a slow death at the hands of the Executioner’s apprentices.
Sherko could not simply dismiss the harem flowers. The ministers and cultural guardians in the palace would insist upon their deaths rather than let secrets of the palace out into the world. Sherko had to maintain the delicate balance between the local establishment and his new rulership. Until he puzzled out a solution, Sherko possessed a harem he had no intention of using whatsoever.
One benefit in the miasma of misery that Ushuaia offered was the royal bathhouse. Sherko had endured months on campaign with minimal access to proper bathing facilities and despised the feeling of filth on his skin. Long soaks in hot water also eased the aches and pains of battle in a way alcohol could not match. Even the luxury of dozing off for a time was one Sherko was pleased to indulge. He had no need of his perpetual battle-readiness within the palace.
Even so, when Sherko took a luxuriant bath in a pool one evening, the sound of soft footsteps roused him to alertness. Through the haze of steam and scented smokes, he could only make out a lithe figure robed in silk and kneeling at the edge of the bathing pool.
“Who are you?” Sherko asked, voice already weary.
“One who wishes to serve as your seneschal, if you would have me.” The voice was deeper than Sherko had expected.
Squinting, Sherko saw a flash of a man’s face through the curtain of dark hair. A handsome face, with the rounded cheeks and smooth skin of one unaccustomed to hard labor.
“Do I need a seneschal?” the word was strange to Sherko and his lips struggled with the title. He had a vague sense of what it meant, a servant attached to the private chambers of a noble, but he already had many of those. They were fluttering little things who dressed and undressed him like a child, fetched him food and drink, and even sang if he so desired.
“Certainly. If you will allow me to demonstrate?” the man spread his hands wide. The gesture opened part of his silk robe, displaying a hairy torso and a metallic glint: a pair of silver rods through his nipples.
Sherko’s mouth went dry. “May I have your … your name?” he asked.
~*~
“Anaar. And I am most pleased to serve.” Anaar shed his robe in one fluid movement and then slipped into the water across from the Warlord.
Anaar knew he had to move quickly. He’d heard from Dinazade that the Warlord was discomforted with the very idea of a harem and would refuse a flower outright if offered. Anaar was taking an enormous gamble in approaching the Warlord so boldly. He could only hope that while the Warlord had refused Dinazade, he would accept Anaar. Perhaps it was only the feminine flowers incapable of capturing the Warlord’s eye?
Thus far, the Warlord had been staring at his naked body with obvious interest. He had not given his express permission yet, but that was a mere formality to Anaar. This was the new King and Anaar was a harem flower ripe and eager to be plucked.
Keeping his eyes locked with the Warlord’s, Anaar reached down and wrapped his fingers around the Warlord’s cock.
The Warlord made a noise of shock, but not a sound of rage. As Anaar began to stroke and squeeze, the Warlord moaned promisingly.
The Warlord was built proportionally, with muscular thighs and a heavy cock. His chest was battle-scarred and his face looked carved from rough stone. His hair was thin and cut short to his shoulders, a ruddy-clay color with streaks of gray throughout. It would not be a trial to be used by this man. Anaar’s cock twitched with interest as he noted the prominent muscles and sturdy frame of his new King. He was pleased he had stretched himself before approaching. He was oiled and ready for the Warlord’s thick cock.
“What are you doing?” the Warlord gasped.
“What I am meant to do.” Anaar said. He had thought to only stroke the Warlord, perhaps dip underneath the water and impress with a swift caress of his mouth, but he needed more. Anaar had waited so long to be taken and he was at the cusp of it at last. He would reap the benefits of his boldness or die trying.
The Warlord seized his wrist in an iron grip. “Why are you acting like some camp-follower? Don’t you know what happens when a minx keeps teasing a man?”
Anaar didn’t know what a camp-follower was, but he could hazard a guess. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to demonstrate?” he asked.
The Warlord growled and released his wrist. “Get up, turn around.”
Anaar did. He yelped as he felt a sudden shove between his shoulderblades, just barely catching himself on the edge of the bathing pool.
Then he felt the Warlord’s hand on his ass. Anaar spread his legs and smiled in triumph. The Warlord wouldn’t be able to miss how Anaar had prepared himself with oils and stretching. Surely the Warlord could not resist such a blatant enticement?
“You … you did this yourself?” the Warlord’s voice was hoarse.
Anaar felt a brief flare of doubt. Should he have waited? Brought the oil and offered it to the Warlord first? Before his doubt could overpower him, Anaar pushed back, feeling the Warlord’s fingers sink inside.
The Warlord gasped. But he did not pull away.
“You … this isn’t …” the Warlord brushed the spot inside Anaar that made his cock twitch.
Anaar cried out in pure delight.
~*~
Sherko had intended to tell the flower – Anaar, that was his name – to leave.
Then all of the sudden he had three fingers sunk into the man’s glorious ass and Anaar was moaning in what sounded like appreciation. It had to be a performance. Anaar was desperate to please him, just like everyone else in the damn palace. They were all fearful of Sherko’s fearsome reputation.
Even so, it had all gone too far. Sherko tried to step back. His foot slipped on the tiles. In his haste to keep from cracking his head on the marble, he grabbed Anaar by the waist with his free hand. He staggered backwards, slamming into the side of the bathing pool and feeling the warm weight of Anaar sink onto his lap.
“Oh,” Anaar rocked his hips back, rubbing up along Sherko’s cock.
Sherko’s cock was hard. A handsome man was moaning in his arms. Sherko was out of breath and the steam and incense was clouding his mind. Had he fallen asleep in the bath again? Was this gorgeous man a particularly delicious dream?
“Yours,” Anaar was repeating over and over again. He twisted around and made as if to begin riding Sherko’s cock.
Sherko hadn’t needed to prepare him: Anaar had prepared himself. Yet more work done for the Warlord so he needn’t inconvenience himself. Just like the twittering servants who selected his clothes and fetched his food.
“Stop, stop!” Sherko gripped Anaar by the hips. “I never … I never asked for a harem. I’d have sent you all back to your homes if the court officials had permitted it.” Could Anaar even understand what he meant? Was there any point to protestation?
“Once a harem flower arrives at the palace, the only way to leave is by death.” Anaar recited as if by rote.
That was foul. Sherko’s cock almost softened at the reminder of what these flowers endured. “Even if I sent you away now?” Sherko asked. “The previous King never had you, Dinazade said so. She was the previous favorite, but you weren’t.”
“To sample me, and then reject me?” Anaar bowed his head, voice lilting in sorrow. “To be plucked and left to spoil is the fate every flower dreads. The Royal Executioner would slay me by the next season, to free space in the harem for one who might suit your tastes.”
Sherko felt a surge of rage, but it abated almost as quickly as it had arrived. Anaar was the wronged party. For all his pretty talk and effusive gasps, his choice had been taken from him long ago. He couldn’t possibly desire Sherko, the monster who had killed his King and taken over his home. Sherko was a vile creature to even consider using Anaar in such a manner.
Though … he had already begun to use Anaar. Inadvertently, but still. And if Anaar considered himself ‘sampled’ already, the court officials would doubtless agree.
The very least Sherko could do was to allow Anaar keep his life and his position. Sending the man to his death would rid Sherko of the reminder of his shame, but it wouldn’t erase what he had done.
“No. I shall not allow that to happen.” Sherko felt a headache growing from so long in hot water. “I will not reject you. I will not let you … spoil.”
Anaar nuzzled Sherko’s throat. “Your majesty is merciful and gracious.”
Sherko bit back several curses.
When Anaar began to sink onto Sherko’s cock, Sherko did not resist. Despite his guilt, he could not hold back his response to the tight heat of Anaar’s body. The man moved like a dancer and had the stamina of a cavalry horse. With every movement, the silver bars in his nipples glinted in the lantern-light. All too soon, Sherko felt his body arching and his hips thrusting up to meet Anaar’s pace.
To Sherko’s surprise, Anaar’s cock hardened between their bodies. Perhaps Anaar had taken some drug to induce the arousal. Perhaps he was merely thinking of someone else. Regardless, Sherko toyed with the idea of splaying Anaar out on the edge of the bathing pool and getting his mouth on Anaar’s cock. There was a silver bar there too, just below the head, and Sherko’s mouth watered at the thought of flicking his tongue over it.
“I’m close.” Sherko grunted as he felt his body begin to tense.
Anaar made no movement to dismount. If anything he ground down on Sherko even harder.
Sherko lasted a few more thrusts, then his orgasm rolled through him like a thunderstorm across the plains.
Anaar stayed in place. His cock was still hard and looked painfully flushed. He made no sound of discomfort and no expression of frustration crossed his beautiful face.
Sherko was tempted to send Anaar back to the harem for some privacy. His own lust won over his ragged memories of propriety and discretion. He wrapped his hand around Anaar’s cock and closed his eyes so he couldn’t attempt to read Anaar’s face. Then Sherko jerked Anaar off in a swift and perfunctory manner.
Anaar made a variety of pleased sounds that normally would have delighted Sherko from a partner. Instead Sherko felt vaguely ill as he sped up his pace. Anaar was only pretending for him, pretending to enjoy his own violation.
It was a relief to Sherko when Anaar came, cock spilling over both their bellies. He hoped perversely that Anaar had at least garnered some true pleasure in that moment.
“Oh!” a new voice exclaimed.
Sherko opened his eyes. One of the innumerable court officials stood in the doorway to the baths, eyes wide and face heating from more than the steam.
“The Warlord has taken me as his Seneschal.” Anaar declared, voice clear and confident.
The official bowed deeply. “I shall inform the court of this development. Congratulations to you both.” He retreated swiftly through the doorway.
Sherko sighed heavily. Perhaps Ushuaia really was the worst kingdom he had ever conquered.