Bitchmaster update

He could see silhouettes slim and slender, or full and voluptuous, athletic and muscular, displayed as temptingly as the wares in a market, but with an air of mystery as befitted their femininity. Securing his staff in the crook of his elbow, Gilgim leaned up close to the slanting wall, cupping his hands over his head to obstruct the flow of water and allow himself a clear glimpse inside…

But as if in response to the pressure of his hands upon the glass, the Hourglass shifted, a rectangle of glass sliding off out of his way right where he had touched as if it had been a portal all along. Gilgim could now see inside, step inside the Hourglass…

But, so doing, it was a question of whether he would ever be able to leave. He certainly didn’t want to. Stairs rose up in the middle of the floor in a massive, tiered hillock like a wedding cake in many layers. On each tier, circular landings held row after row of divans where whores, each as pretty as the one he had followed, plied their trade in full view of one another and their paying customers—many of whom were content to stay on the ground floor and look up at one divan or another. In each, couplings proceed apiece, or waiting whores pleasured themselves, while still others slept, as lovely and tempting as the cursed princess in a fairy tale. And at the top of the towering mound lay a single, golden divan in the shape of a clamshell, where the most beautiful of all looked down at her lessers like she was reading omens in the ephemeral matings and dreams and self-gratification. A priestess holding mass in an opium den.

“She’s quite a sight, isn’t she?” Gilgim knew the brothel madam the moment he laid eyes on her. Attractively well-preserved, she still lacked the svelte youth of the women endlessly cavorting as if for their priestess’s approval. “That’s the Vika Womanhood—but, no offense, I think she may be too rich for your blood. Not to worry; as you can see, our other girls suffer barely at all in comparison.”

Gilgim wasn’t too sure. He surely couldn’t look away from Vika to make a determination; The madam was no temptation in that regard. What other woman aspired to be, dressed up as, made themselves over to remember, Vika in her nudity simply was. Her skin was a deep caramel, speaking of exoticness foreign to the rainy pallor of Petrichor, giving her pert breasts a candied appearance, the tawny perfection continuing down her taut belly, well-rounded hips, and long legs, their bareness displaying not a single flaw all the way to her painted toenails, which curled in ecstasy. Wide, luminous eyes were the same warm brown as her chocolate-colored hair, sweaty strands of it overlaid on her shoulders and gleaming throat like drizzles of frosting on some delicious confection. Gilgim had thought of this place as a meatmarket before, but Vika, she belonged in a bakery serving only the most discerning tongues.

Above her, the rain gathering in the upper half of the hourglass didn’t just wash down the sides of the pyramid, but a single drop of it gathered at the inner tip. There, minute by minute, it dripped down, the rare beads of water landing unerringly on the naked Vika’s clitoris. With each strike, she let out a mewling sigh, as if some infinitely precious silver bell had been struck. The small noise was so awash with excitement, spoke of so much erotic potential, that it caused a sea change in the room’s atmosphere. Many of the women present were watching, or listening with half an ear, and when Vika’s pleasure sounded, they were swept along with it. As she arched her back, seeming to roll with the subtly profound enjoyment she took in being touched, a chorus of orgasmic delight followed her, other women accelerating their lovemaking to join in or finding the fulfillment of their self-pleasure suddenly mounting precariously. Gilgim felt a lustful vigor filling him, one he thought had been under control as he resisted the temptation of the whore that had led him here, but which now threatened to flood his levees and overflow him.

Breathing unsteadily, with a reedy panting that bespoke some higher level of arousal, Vika settled back to the divan to await the next wave of pleasure that the distilled, pristine little raindrop would bring her.

“I must speak to her,” Gilgim said, realizing how overenthusiastic he sounded only as his words left his mouth.

“They mostly say that,” the madam observed.

“No, no.” Gilgim took off one glove, revealing the royal seal on his ringed finger. “It’s on business for the crown.”

The madam’s eyes widened, suitably impressed, and she inclined her head to indicate that Gilgim would be permitted to ascend the steps and approach Vika. Gilgim did so, though it was hard to keep his balance, keep a steady pace up the stairs, when all around him were moaning, sighing women, their ecstasy intoxicating, tempting him to look at any one of them and gleam how she was pleasuring herself so. He kept his eyes carefully ahead of him, if not down at his feet. Any help he got from seeing where he was walking would be undone if he saw just how far the throbbing tumescence in his breeches had grown.

Finally, he came to Vika’s platform. He did not ascend the final few steps, but stayed on the sixth step from the top, letting that lower position diminish his height and serve as a measure of respect, while also hiding his lust.

Vika turned onto her side, revealing a body like some fertile valley of soft grass and good soil, rolling hills and delving curves and the wetness anointing the vee of her loins, which could’ve been the rainwater and could also be something else, if she were mortal enough to enjoy this spectacle as much as anyone else would. With an elbow below her head to indolently support herself and one knee arched to serve up the inky gloss of her dark, womanly hairs, the rainwater now fell on her sveltely rounded hips, coiling down to her womanhood where its cool touch send a shiver of small, but languorously enjoyed happiness into her receptive body. 

“A visitor,” she purred with not quite happiness, but a patient satisfaction, like she’d been awaiting him and only him for so very long. “And a new face, with a new body—such newness—such mystery—will you be a good lover, or will I have to teach you?”

Gilgim was speechless. Another raindrop splashed on Vika’s sumptuous hip, a little tap on that well-rounded curve, making Gilgim think of how a kiss would land there, or a gripping hand, the moment of impact before the squeeze when the feel of her would fill his palm like the explosion of flavor when biting into fruit that had just ripened.

“There are so few men in this city with big enough coin-purses to please me,” Vika said, a rueful pout on her perfect lips, as if they might pucker for a kiss at any moment. “Most nights I’m so lonely. I must take my pleasure where I find it. I feel like I’m wasting away for want of anyone to appreciate my love.”

She tilted herself slightly toward him, and another raindrop landed on the crest of her buttocks, slipping down into the vale between those buoyant cheeks. Gilgim’s eyes tried to follow it down as it passed behind Vika, where he couldn’t see it. He had to resist the urge to crane his neck.

“I’m not here for myself.”

“Yes,” Vika said, eyes sliding over him. Gilgim could hear mewling dissatisfaction behind him as, without Vika’s lead, the chorus of shared pleasure broke apart. Vika seemed to grin at withholding their pleasure from them, just as she enjoyed knowing that Gilgim wouldn’t receive her patronage. Like a cat toying with a mouse. “Some new noble wants for my services and sends you to fetch me. A pity. The rich can be so soft and lazy. A working man, though…”

Gilgim felt an all-consuming throb go through his groin and he had to fight down spilling in his pants. “Not a noble. The crown.”

“Oh?” Vika’s eyes consumed the ring on his finger. “Oh yes, I see. How amusing. But I thought the royal family had no males… not that it makes a difference to me. Pleasure is pleasure. We’ve learned that abundantly here.” Her eyes swept over the lower levels, the mounting frustration of lesser harlots no longer able to feed off her sumptuous enjoyment. “Yes, we’re well aware of what men can and cannot do… but oh, oh—I’ve heard of a change. A new addition to the family. Like when one gets a dog for a beloved child.” A smile flicked on as another raindrop bounced off the taut swell of her buttocks. “Does the Queen have a hound now? One who will mount a she-bitch when she’s in heat?”

Gilgim flustered, finding it impossible to grow angry at the woman when her beauty was so appealing, no matter the provocation. “The Queen has work for you. You are invited to discuss it in the royal presence. I will escort you there.”

Vika sighed and lolled over onto her back, splayed once more to look up at her reflection, multiplied in the many faces of the pyramid as they came to a point. Gilgim could see now how she’d taken so much pleasure, exulted and lusted after, worshipped as an icon of godly beauty.

“Shame. I thought something would happen here and now.”

The raindrop fell again, stinging her erect clit, and Vika gave off a pitched cry as she jerked her hips, the temple prostitutes joining in as though linked to her—Vika’s pleasure the tiny snowflake that started an avalanche, as they moaned, as they gasped, as they panted and screamed and purred in a frenzy of lust that Vika left them in, rising up from her divan and pulling a shawl behind her to wrap herself in. Gilgim was surprised to see that it was far more modest than the translucent rain-shields he had seen the other harlots wear, a veritable robe that came down to her ankles, as if even the sight of her exceeded the price that most could pay.

“Let’s be off then,” she said, covering herself but leaving in Gilgim the full awareness that she was bare below the folds of fabric. “Perhaps her highness’s proposition will prove of interest. It can get very boring here…”

***

In the Queen’s private chambers, the rain seemed to be barraging the balconied room harder than ever, gales of it sweeping under the canopy and hissing upon the floor. Still, Lona sat there, apart from the rumpus in her chambers as handmaidens prepared Katrine for her wedding. 

“I really am to wear this?” Katrine insisted, staring wide-eyed at her reflection in a mercilessly tall mirror. Having been sewn into a near-skintight wedding dress that was sheer save for its white corset and ironically opaque veil, she was now having long diamond prisms the width of chopsticks being inlaid in her dress, giving her the appearance of sleeting rain transposing her. It was still mercilessly hard to tell she was wearing anything at all, with her breasts and womanhood both laid bare.

Lona continued to sit within an armspan of the rain splattering the balcony, her queenly poise not dying down even in privacy. “It’s tradition, and we insisted on a traditional marriage so long as you’re marrying an outlander. You’ll be given an overcloak. Only your husband will see you without it.”

“That’s bad enough,” Katrine pouted, falling into sullen silence as the tailoring continued, like a canvas that hated being covered in paint.

Lona thought furiously, as she had behind layers of poise and reserve for long hours now since the underhanded, but undeniably clever deal that Horn had used to force her hand. As a queen, she’d be expected to have not just one plan, but a multitude of them, a second and a third ready to go if the first proved unfavorable, alternatives prepared that she could commit to as soon as one of them became expedient.

But as a mother—what could she say? It wasn’t exactly that she thought Horn would make a good husband, only that he had good qualities, finer than most, that could prove as advantageous in a relationship as in an alliance. He showed neither fear or hatred of women, which should not have been a good quality or a rare one, but in this world it was often both. In fact, his confidence spoke of an ease he possessed in his dealings, as if he were very sure that he could reverse Katrine’s distaste for him. Having seen all too much of his endowment, Lona found it easy to believe that he knew how to please a woman. In civilized pretenses, Katrine might think ill of them, but once the wedding candles were guttering and both their clothes were taken from the equation, Lona suspected that Katrine might enjoy herself. Indeed, as perhaps she should have done some time ago.

But as a mother, how could she caution her child to keep an open mind when it came to matters of the heart, of the womb? Would Katrine ever forgive her if Lona urged her towards Horn and he proved himself to be the same brute in the bedchamber that he was on the battlefield? And should Katrine be unable to maintain her composure, the wedding could be ruined before it began, and on their side of the arrangement as well!

No. Safest of all, both as mother and as queen, to destroy the marriage by means as underhanded as Horn had procured it. It might not do to get Katrine’s hopes up, but as a mother, Lona had no choice.

She clapped her hands. “Leave us,” she said, having garnered the handmaidens’ attention, and they departed without a word. Then, Lona rose, going to Katrine and continuing the work of shooting through her gauzy dress with the crystals meant to somehow distract from her nudity instead of draw attention to it. 

“Mo—ther—“ her stepdaughter keened, frustration mounting on her drawn face. Lona set her own face in discontent. It was at times like these that it was easy to believe that Katrine was not so much refined as she was spoiled.

“Keep still! Keep silent!” Lona told her, stitching the sewing needle through the proper places with a speed and sure hands telling Katrine that her stepmother didn’t much care if she got herself spiked by the sharp point. Cowed, she held carefully still—big eyes looking up at Lona as she trusted the Queen not to jab her.

“That’s better,” Lona said calmly. “You’re a Princess of Yasminia. That holds for both heavy storm and light sprinkle.”

Even more cowed when Lona was even in her voice than when she raised it, Katrine lowered her eyes. 

Lona stopped sewing to lift Katrine’s chin. “You will not be wed,” she promised Katrine. “At least, not in the truth. The marriage will not be consummated.”

“Not be consummated?” Katrine asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—“ And Lona continued sewing Katrine up. “That assuming you have kept your maidenhood yourself, it will not fall to Horn. I have taken steps. We can think up a reason for why the deed was not done later, but after the first night, he will have no right to you. Then, at a later time, when we dissolve the wedding, you will be as marriageable as ever. The healers will be able to ascertain it for themselves. Why do you think I insisted on this archaic garb?”

Katrine’s eyes were wide as a doe’s as she looked up at Lona. “Do you mean it?”

There was a knock at the chamber door. “Gilgim, your highness. You told me you would receive me as soon as my task was complete.”

“So I did,” Lona shouted out. Picking up a jeweled headdress with beads of sapphire pretending to be fat raindrops, she set the final piece upon Katrine’s head. A heavy silk veil fell from it, completely concealing her stepdaughter’s features. Lona smiled. Plans within plans—first, second, and third. “Here is what you must do, my daughter. You will sit alongside Horn as the ceremonial blessings are called down; it will take most of the evening. When I was wed to your father, it was mostly an excuse to celebrate—the real business was the vows, those are the same in every land. But the important thing is that you must not shirk from him in those first hours of being wed, no matter how boorishly he behaves, no matter how he offends you or takes liberties. Instead, ply him with wine, see that his cup is never empty. If he is drunk enough, he’ll sleep through the wedding night entire and you can tell him how vigorously he performed when all you shared was slumber. Its many a woman who only bled a pig on her wedding night, and so retained her boon, or concealed having given it to another.”

Katrine’s face fell. “That’s your plan? To drown him in wine? He looks like he could drink an ocean of the stuff!”

Lona narrowed her eyes at Katrine. “That is not my plan entire, not even a half of it, but it is your role to play. Dazzle him with your beauty, speak softly of love into his ear, and know that you will never have to match your deeds to your words should you only trust me.”

Another knock came. “M’lady? Should I depart and return in time?”

Lona straightened Katrine’s dress and veil. “No, no. Send her in, with my thanks, Gilgim.”