And From Your Lips

Your Faith Was Strong and You Needed Proof

You're no longer a small archetype, tiny but victorious against overwhelming odds. You're a warrior of great nation. Women are yours for the taking, and you have wives and concubines. Boys, also, scattered around your palace and your military camps, all eager to please their king. You serve an awesome god who has a tendency to micromanage, but since he got you where you are today, you're not going to complain.

But sometimes you wish your life were your own and you wander about on the palace roof looking for more. It's here where you first see them. This time he's on top, long curls sticking with sweat to his face and his soldier's arms, rods of gold, are vibrating against the strain of holding himself up, thrusting and rutting. She's got her arms flung out on the rooftop and she's laughing, you think, though the sound doesn't carry across the rooftops to your much higher perch. So much olive skin, slick and shining, and you can't see where one ends and the other begins.

Next time you see them she's mounted him, facing you, and you wonder briefly if they know you're there. He's got his hands tangled in the tight black curls of her hair, pulling back her head and revealing the ivory column of throat. Her hands are on her breasts, and as she pulls at he nipples they seem to dance. You want them in your own mouth, trembling like fawns.

You wonder what their faces are like in peace. When you watch, they are always contorted with effort and passion. Her eyes squeezed shut, his lips drawn back to reveal teeth hard and white like new-shorn sheep. You want to feel those teeth around your nipples.

Daily you return to your high balcony and watch them. It's become an obsession with you. When she dips the scarlet thread of her lips to surround his sweetness, you want to be the one she tastes. When his hands delve into her golden warmth and he brings them, dripping with sweet myrrh, to taste while she writhes, waiting for more, you want to be the one he's mining. You want to be with them, before, behind, between, above, below. Licked and bitten, sucked and petted. You want to soak your face with her flowing honey and drink his man-rejoicing wine. You think about them at war, at council, while ruling on matters great and petty.

You Saw Her Bathing on the Roof

One evening you see her there alone, sunbathing in the bearable evening heat. Her skin glows with health but not the slickness of lust, and her face in peace is beyond lovely. She is a rose of Sharon, a shining beacon of loveliness and purest beauty, and you want to run down to her house right now and thrust into her precious golden goblet until your burning passion is at long last slaked, the fires of its painful burning banked to warm and glowing ashes. You almost do, though she's a married woman in the inviolable sanctum of her own home. But your god is an angry god, and you're relatively sure that there's a substantial difference between seducing a virgin to take her as concubine, and forcing yourself upon a matron bound in marriage before the lord god. No matter how passionate a lover that matron may be, how vital a woman.

In your lust-addled mind it occurs to you to wonder where the husband is. If she's alone, does that mean he not around? You've had them investigated, of course; one of the privleges of being the king. He's a soldier, a good one, but his unit is in Jerusalem this month -- you've seen to it he wouldn't be sent away.

Before you can stop yourself you are off the balcony, down the stairs, in the streets of Jerusalem without an escort. Nobody stops you. You're a warrior as well as a king, and you can protect yourself. You enter their home without knocking -- another royal privilege -- and there he is, mending a broken table (in your mind you see how it broke, her bent forward over its surface, her breasts hanging down as he thrusts into her soft soft wetness from behind, pressing her hips into the cedar until the flesh bruised and the wood cracked and still they move, laughing, now on the floor among the shards). You've never been so close to him and now you see the old pox pits on his face, a scar beneath his eye, cedar dust in his hair, and you've never in your life been so aroused.

He glances up, curious and somewhat irritated, but then recognizes you -- what soldier wouldn't? -- and scrambles to his feet. You summon him to the palace, bidding him follow. Some pathetic excuse, it doesn't matter what. He won't believe it anyway; why did you come yourself, and not send a messenger? And then you're in a room at the palace. You don't remember which one, but you don't care as long as you can block the door and keep private. Now it's like your dreams but so much better. His teeth are sharper than you ever could have imagined and you cry out in pain as well as pleasure. You nearly choke on his choice fruits, more salty than sweet and oh so perfect and velvet against your tongue. You suck until your lips are sore and he cries out as sharply as you.

Her Beauty and the Moonlight Overthrew You

In retrospect, you should have just spoken with him, with them both, and invited them both into your bed. But what you do with Uriah is acceptable sin. Just two soldiers taking the edge off in the way of soldiers in all lands. You admit, you're a bit surprised that you find yourself face in the pillow and royal ass in the air quite so often, but when you're naked and slippery you revert to two soldiers, not king and subject. He has been in real battle far more often than you have of late, and warriors climb to the top in the oldest of ways. It's a comfort, for you miss the filth and solid realness of war, and these acts, complete with grunting if not with the stink of a soldier's camp, make you feel alive again.

She, on the other hand, is off limits. Married, chaste. Only her husband has the right to taste her honey. You find yourself wondering if she, too, is more real than you imagine her. Does she have dirt under her fingernails? Does she stop mid-fuck and tell you to get off her hair because it's pulling? Does her belly, golden like ripe wheat, bear scabs of stretch marks?

Your fantasies of imperfection turn you on more than you'd ever thought possible. You are only distracted from thoughts of her when you're with him, and you wonder if he knows. He gets more forceful, more arrogant. He presses you against walls, against couches, against priceless statues sent from Nubia. He squeezes ripe oranges into your lips and down your chest, then licks it off as it dries sticky and itchy in your hair. You need more of him, and you think more of him will kill you.

Perhaps if you send him away for a time, you can have her. Could your god really mind, if her husband's been fucking you for months anyhow? And then you can get over this unhealthy obsession with a man who could make you do anything, anything he asked. Luckily he hasn't figured out that his power extends beyond sex, but he will. He will.

And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah