As Pleases My General

Unfortunately D'nar's immediate reaction was a grin of warm admiration. He felt an adrenaline rush and the erotic buzz of blood flowing to his penis and loins as he understood how thoroughly he had been deceived. Standing in the doorway of his house, he ducked his head shyly down like some foolish boy who wants to hide his emotions. But it was very many years now since he had been in the habit of ducking his head to hide boyish emotions.

Even before he got to his house he had had his suspicions. The city was awash with rumours of an uprising in Andarria. In the wooden stalls of the muddy marketplace they were saying that significant forces had been collecting into an army and had suddenly started massing on the border with Tarknan. But when he got to his house, the modest one-storey timber and mud building with the pretty courtyard hidden inside, the door was locked as was usual at night. From the outside all appeared to be as it had always been when he returned from a tour of duty.

When he opened the door and stepped into his house he heard the silence. It held a stillness of a wholly different quality to the usual quiet peace that had come to reign in his home, which was full of the small creaks and clicks and hushed sounds of a lived in dwelling. He saw the abnormally tidy state of the tiny hallway: no little cloak or boots strewn carelessly about, no toy left just where an unwary returning parent might tread on it and break it. He knew then that she had taken the Crown and had gone.

Yet she had locked the door. She had scrupulously cleaned and tidied his home and had left it safely locked so that his goods and belongings would not be stolen or vandalised. She herself had not gone through the house she had cleaned and cared for these past five years wreaking vengeance on objects she would know were dear to his heart.

He went through the rooms, calling out sometimes softly: "little dove, sweetmeat, my pretty, are you there?" or in more commanding tones: "'Lissa! some beer if you please and heat up water for a bath!" It was clean and tidy all the way throughout except for a week's light dust lying on every surface.

She had taken the Crown and had gone.

He could not believe how foolish he had been. He had actually selected her to care for the Crown. He could not help that warm grin of admiration lifting the corner of his mouth and sparkling in his eyes again. He reminded himself that she must have been a mistress of military arts to have deceived him: D'nar, a Commander of the Akhan of Tarknan's forces, who had been entrusted with the care of the Crown of Andarria.

That slumped lumpy figure in the shapeless garments with the bland dark eyes. It was only the love that softened those dark eyes when she looked on the Crown that had been genuine -- the submissive passion for the Crown which a shitty trickster of an Andarrian would be completely unable to disguise, and he had been the more deceived by it. That adoring submissive softness in her eyes had actually made him believe even more in her lying pissing presentation of herself as a slack-shouldered weak slave woman whose presence in his home and closeness to the Crown he had rapidly come to accept. He had considered this shuffling soft-eyed slave posed as little threat to his or the Crown's safety as did the kitchen table.

Ah, the kitchen table.

He paused in the kitchen with the small blue enamelled cooking range and the red tiled floor, the cupboards with the pretty china door knobs painted with flowers in which she had always displayed such a lack of feminine interest.

Oh yes. Now that she had actually gone there were all sort of things which he realised ought to have made him suspicious.

Here at this kitchen table where he took her for the first time in passion. He ought to have realised then except that his mind was reeling from the pleasures he found in her unexpectedly powerful body. For the first time he frowned in anxiety. Was it for that reason that she lay with him, was it only so as to distract and deceive him the more, had she never felt for him the irresistible, the electric shiver of absolute desire for her to which he had succumbed?

But she had locked his house up, secured it for him, when she left it.

And more than that, when he remembered how she had been with him -- even that first time, he knew that she had liked it with him, that she had liked him.

It started one time he came back late in the night from a tour of duty. He unlocked the door quietly, meaning only to sneak in and leave his bags before going to a brothel to slake his lust. He had meant to come home again first thing in the morning of course, to see the Crown.

He went stealthily into the kitchen for a glass of water and there she was, lying across the table in the deep sleep of the fully physically weary, the hood of her unflattering garment fallen away from the close-cropped dark-haired head. The guttering candle threw light softly onto the hard lean planes of her handsome face and the delicate eyelids hooded the hard eyes which she would make blank towards him.

He had felt suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He was physically exhausted himself with the long days of hard riding, the mental challenge of negotiations along the borders, the effort required to discipline his men. Coming into this peaceful bright kitchen with the woman who was so tired out with keeping it clean that she had fallen asleep sitting at the table, he felt keenly aware of the neatness of his home around him. What had once been a dull bachelor place to throw himself down in and sleep if he could not be troubled with the brothels had become a home shining with a military polish that he deeply appreciated. The blue of the cooking range, the red tiles of the floor, the dusky yellow walls seemed to glow with a limpid efficiency, to salute him with the easy warm companionship of a comrade in arms.

In an unthinking gesture of affection and gratitude he put his hand softly on her shoulder. He would never have done it if he had not been so tired.

She surged up from the table instantly, the one hand seizing his right, his fighting arm, the other gripped on the hilt of his sword, her narrowed dark eyes stared intently into his eyes, glinting dangerously in the candlelight.

As she realised who he was, she drew a deep breath. What must he have smelt like! fresh off campaign, he must have stunk of horses and some bread and garlic they chewed in the saddle while riding home and most of all of salty musky sweaty man. Now he realised how familiar all those smells would have been to her and so instead of standing away from him in disgust, bowing her head in her usual deceptive tricksy pissing submissive way, she had moved closer towards him, her eyelids narrowing over her eyes and the dangerous glint in her eyes becoming the glint of desire.

Straight off the tour of duty and expecting to go to the brothel, he was already stiff with lust, the blood already starting to flow about his penis in anticipation. Instead of attempting to throw off her grip on his wrist and wrestle with her for the sword, he pulled his arm in so that she came even closer, his mouth closed on hers before he could think about it.

She kissed him back.

She had been in his house for two years by then, lurking about waiting for the right moment. He could not imagine being on a two year mission without the release of tensions provided by the brothel. Now that he knew the truth about her he was not surprised that she had succumbed to the unexpectedly available man with all the familiar scents and flavours of the army.

She must have missed the army with the tortured longing of a lost soul stuck in the Fifth Hell.

Her tongue came probing, caressing his tongue and without loosening her grip on his wrist or his sword, she pressed her body to his, her legs already parting around his legs. His free arm went about her to pull her in harder to him and then with that one left hand he reached round to drag at the front of the drapery of clothing in which she hid her body. Suddenly she let go of his sword and reached back to pinch out the candle so he could not see her body. But he felt it: the hard strong flat planes of muscle where he had expected slack folds of poorly exercised flesh. He was puzzled but she had pushed his hand to a big breast. That was soft alright. He groaned with pleasure in their kiss as he gently flexed his fingers on the softness of her breast, his penis started engorging with blood.

In the dim light coming through the kitchen window from the torch which flamed all night in the courtyard he could see the shape of her head as she went down, sinking to her knees. She had let go of both his sword and his wrist in order to wrench at his army breeches, she pulled the lacing open and lifted out his cock: turgid now with longing, all the blood gone from his brain to surge into his penis and loins. She took the head of his thick cock straight into her soft warm mouth, that smooth head which she licked caressingly with her tongue then she began sucking softly on him.

Moaning in rhythm with her sucking, his hands dropped to her shoulders where he gripped gently. As he became too excited to stay in her mouth, he nudged her head tenderly away.

She raised a face which shone palely in the dimness, glinting as hard with lust as any soldier's would be; two years on a mission with no release of tension. Whipped up by the appeal of the military he had subconsciously recognised in her face, her behaviour -- that of a subaltern requested to pleasure a comrade in arms, he made a crazy suggestion. He was so desperate to get inside her on the equal terms that her hard military face offered and not on the submissive terms that her domestic slave status would have to provide that he said, in a husky voice: "How about if I take you army style?"

The glint of desire became a laugh of pure entertainment and for just a second she was staring up from where she was kneeling on the floor, her dark eyes glinting with intelligence and humour and desire and a bit of danger; fully his equal, possibly his superior, then she dipped her head and mumbled: "Alright," as if she were a reluctant slave giving in to his wishes but actually to hide her sniggering merriment.

She got up on the table before he could think about her wholly uncharacteristic behaviour or feel bad about taking a reluctant slave in the manner he wanted. She flipped a small pot of lubricant so expertly from a drawer onto the table that that too should have made him suspicious -- if he could have thought about anything except getting inside her.

Meanwhile he was taking a condom out of his pocket and easing it onto his tense thick penis with trembling fingers.

She was dragging her clothes away rapidly, exposing her naked backside: big round powerful buttocks with between her legs the bush of dark hair. He could not resist parting her legs and the lips of her labia just to touch her glistening wet vulva. She quivered with the overwhelming sensation of his touch; unbearable since he would not be entering her there. Already his finger, moistened with lubricant, was touching her anus, she let out a groan, quivering again at this more promising touch. His finger sank into the tight rim of her anus and he pushed it deeper to the tune of her long groan. She arched down her back, pressing her head and shoulders into the table, lifting her backside to him.

He took his penis, thick and throbbing with blood, and allowed the head of it one little nudge at her red warm vulva, she made a frustrated "aaaah!" and he slid up to the anal passage and slowly he sank deep into her, pulling at her hips to go in as far as he could get. His breeches, his sword belt even, pressed into her thighs and buttocks. Gently, tenderly, he pulled back and then pushed forward again, slowly at first then quickening his rhythm, groaning in time with her, thrusting to her pleasure, her thighs spreading to welcome his pushing. Her hand had come back to tease at her clitoris, he felt her fingers moving against his hands that were grasping her lean muscular thighs at the groin, he was filled with a warm excitement to think of the double pleasure she was enjoying, he thrust his cock deep in again and then suddenly uncontrollably he was cumming in quick thrusts into her, crying out to her, reaching around her utterly unexpectedly muscular body to those gorgeous big soft tits. He sank it all in her and lay: dirty and sweaty and exhausted, spent of everything, across her naked backside full of his softening member.

In the morning he woke naked and clean in his bed, sunlight dancing through the leaves of the Eucalyptus tree in the courtyard onto his sleep-dazed eyes. Back then he had assumed he had been so exhausted he had not noticed her cajoling him into his bed. Now he realised she had used some soldier's trick to keep him quiet while she rolled him off her, stripped him, cleaned him and carried him to put him in his bed.

Out in the courtyard now it was dark, dark and quiet. Only the breeze whispered in the Eucalyptus leaves, there were no high piping cries to wake an exhausted man, no scolding voice saying, "Let him sleep".

D'nar took his hand from the familiar surface of the wooden table, sighed and turned out of the kitchen. He must go to the White Castle and see the Akhan.

They took him to the throne hall and as they bowed him in, he saw that the young Akhan was already there. He was sitting not on the throne but on the topmost step of the dais to one side of the carved white throne. The tall candles all the way down the throne hall flung warm light up the stone walls and onto the blond figure of the Akhan in his traditional white silk suit with his head lifted round as D'nar was shown in. He was still a slim young thing although he would start filling out in maturity soon. Tall, lean and lovely in white silk, he smiled as he saw D'nar.

"My beloved Akhan," D'nar said, bowing his head perfunctorily and going rapidly down the hall to the Akhan.

"The Crown has gone?" the Akhan asked.

"Yes," D'nar answered. "I will go in pursuit. Or will you have me go with the forces to the border?"

The Akhan stood up and stretched out his long young body with a sigh. His blue eyes looked softly down at the warrior standing at the bottom of the steps. He came down the steps and put a hand on D'nar's shoulder, gripped the hardened leather of the hauberk.

"You've only just come back from a tour of duty," he said. "My uncle and I hope to avoid going back to war. We'll be sending ambassadors to negotiate terms for Andarria's independence. You wouldn't be an appropriate person to assist them," he grinned and lifted his hand to cup it on D'nar's unshaven cheek, still looking softly into his weather-beaten face while he caressed the bristly curve of D'nar's chin. When D'nar grinned back, the old white scar on his cheek danced in his face. His eyebrow was also cut across by a scar over a piercing hazel eye. His close-cropped hair, his hard-muscled stance, all suggested violence although the Akhan knew even better than most that off the battlefield D'nar was the most considerate of men.

"Will you allow me to go after the woman who has taken the Crown?" D'nar asked.

The Akhan frowned, saying, "No. This is unlike you, D'nar. The woman has been close to the Crown in loving care. It will be traumatic for the Crown if you in particular take out any vengeance on her and that will gravely damage our efforts to secure good and peaceful relations with Andarria. Come. If we can secure peace you might think about retiring and settling down with someone special." He looked into D'nar's face with those appealing blue eyes. "You can take anyone you choose," he said. "Anyone," he reiterated with emphasis.

D'nar grinned that warm affectionate grin of his. "It's not for vengeance sake that I want to go after the woman," he said.

"Oh!" the Akhan was surprised. "We hoped you would become attached to the Crown but it didn't occur to me that the woman, um, Orlissa ...."

'Fuck me five-ways,' D'nar thought. They knew her fucking name. They knew all about her. Those pissing fucking swine, they put the Crown in his personal care in the hopes that he would provide exactly the kind of tender love that had blossomed in his heart and they allowed a pissing trained assassin to be his domestic slave and never breathed a word to him.

It made a thrill go through him now to remember that time he had demanded that she shave him. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and the blood stirred in his loins.

The Akhan was looking anxiously at him, those blue eyes -- like wild flowers, so pretty, staring into his face while the strong long fingers slid from his bristly unshaven chin to grip his shoulder.

"Don't you fear that she may take vengeance on you?" he asked.

"Well, I expect it," D'nar admitted, "but I don't fear it. I'll take the risk, my beloved Akhan."

He would rather die on her sword taking the chance that he might get even one final fuck from her than risk dwindling out his life with someone who was enslaved or paid or had come to be with him because of his fame or money or connections to the Akhan; some other woman perhaps who would make his home cosy and allow him to fuck her any way he wanted but never lift an eye glinting with danger to make him actually want to fuck her. A quick death seemed to him a better choice than a slow dull life. (Surely even the Andarrians wouldn't take longer than two days -- even to kill him. Even her vengeance for the servitude she had been obliged to endure under him -- literally under him on special occasions although he hoped she had not considered that part of the servitude, would surely be spent in, say, three days of torture.)

"Indeed," murmured the Akhan thoughtfully. D'nar was glad to see that for a moment he looked like his uncle, the Akhanet Regent, that clever compassionate politician who had for years moved them all about like pieces on a chess-board -- but to their own not his advantage. "Is she so ... so accomplished?"

'Fuck me from the front in the fires of the Fifth Hell,' D'nar thought ruefully. They had even known that she screwed him now and then.

"Well ... I just like her," he said lamely.

"May one not ask why?" the Akhan enquired frostily. The blue eyes were chilled now.

D'nar laughed and reached to grip his monarch's upper arm sympathetically. The white silk was slippery under his calloused hand and little threads of it caught on the roughness of his fingers. "Don't be jealous," he chided. "You'll spoil our friendship for a nothing. You know I like women best, for fucking. But in friendship I like a beer and a laugh, perhaps a wrestling match with a comrade. Here is a woman with a pissing fine cunt and now I realise that she's not a shitty slave and that she might come out for a ride and a beer and a laugh and then beat me at wrestling. I've got to give it a go."

The Akhan's finely chiselled mouth twisted in rueful apology. His hand moved back up from gripping the shoulder of D'nar's hauberk to cup around his cheek again and he stepped in up close to D'nar.

"Will you give me a farewell fuck?" he asked wistfully. D'nar had not moved to take him in his arms so he already knew the answer.

"I'm a bit tired," D'nar prevaricated, "with a long hard ride ahead."

"You were always faithful to anyone you gave your heart to," the Akhan said softly.

"You should take a serious lover," D'nar suggested. "The Lady T'rel?"

The Akhan looked nervous at this suggestion. "T'rel and I are good friends," he said. "I like ... I like B'jor."

"Oh the General," D'nar said meditatively. "You like General B'jor, do you?"

"I know, B'jor wouldn't have me," the Akhan said with a shy flick of those pretty blue eyes.