Writing Prompt: Your main character awakens in a room they do not recognize. They stand and go to the mirror where the reflection, at first, confuses them. Staring back is the reigning king…
He stood behind me, motionless. His eyes were as fierce as the battles he’d won, the scars on his crossed arms as damaged as our rivals’ land. I rubbed my eyes, hoping that the presence of the blood-thirsty tyrant was a mirage: a by-product of the beating I’d suffered.
I remembered walking with a picnic basket when I was attacked: two men pulling me into the backstreet behind the thatcher’s cottage and the tavern.
My yells and thoughts silenced by a smash on the back of my head.
And then I woke in the unwelcoming, drafty room: bars on the window of the stone walls, straw lining the cold grey floor. Empty. Apart from two mirrors, and an imaginary murderous despot …
“The mirrors so you can see me pulling out your organs.”
My blood ran cold, jabbering wildly as he stood patiently, waiting for my panicking voice-box to calm. “You despoiled my daughter.” His eyes flicked downwards at my young body, covered in bruises as the full enormity of my actions over the past few months came into focus.
I pleaded my case: he barely listened.
She never told me that she was a princess. She told me her name was Irene. And while she bore a striking resemblance to the warlord’s youngest daughter, who at eighteen was still unmarried, it isn’t too uncommon to look like somebody famous.
The first time we met was at the Country Fair: the richest and most important men and women descended upon the castle to view produce and trade. I was present with my father, selling the tastiest game in the land.
She came to our stall; her fine clothes of silk a world away from my rough, hard-wearing attire. She tasted some of our meat, cooked on a sizzling skillet and thanked us as she left.
Only that’s when I noticed she’d left her purse on our stall; I chased after her, handing her the weighty container covered with finest ermine. I never looked at the insignia.
Despite the incredible fortune contained within, it never occurred to me to keep it. She was shocked by my honesty and unexpectedly visited us the following day. My ageing father was at the market as her soft, golden hair of immaculate curls opened the door into our butchery. Her smile lit up the damp, dark room as her eyes adjusted to the light.
She reminded me of my good deed, offering me a monetary reward. I politely refused; how could I accept payment for being an honest citizen? Had I kept the purse, the wild king would’ve extracted my liver as punishment anyway.
But when she learnt that I had rabbits to de-skin and de-bone, I could not stop the elegant lady eagerly donning the spare blood-stained apron and wanting to help. I tried to dissuade her: she was a woman of breeding and class and my work was menial, but she was insistent and I reluctantly taught her how to prepare the meat. We shared rabbit stew that evening, had a “date” walking around the royal park the following day.
Our meetings became regular: every Tuesday and Friday evening, when my father was at the tavern, I would meet Irene clandestinely in a secluded part of the city. We talked, laughed and joked. She read stories to me: some salacious, some humorous. We kissed. We fondled. I lived for our meetings.
And as one summer evening drew to a close and the sun set over the castle, our kissing and petty became heavier; undressing each other with frantic motions as our lips remained intertwined. She felt my smooth prick through my breaches. My innocent mind was shocked by her mass of pubic twirls.
She lewdly parted her legs; my classy maiden acting like a whore on heat as she pushed my erect prick into her mound of Venus.
I hesitated, unwilling to be responsible for ruining such a wonderful young lady. But there was no barrier to break. She had no virginity for me to take. In fact, she took mine, wrapping her stocking-clad legs around my waist as I pushed my prick into the delightful feeling of heaven.
My senses danced; my feelings more colourful than the sizzling sunset over yonder. Her breathing became faster, she squealed mouse-like as my instinct rammed into her maidenhood. She was as beautiful as anything in God’s kingdom. I felt unable to stop my release as my dam of excitement broke.
She looked into my eyes as my face screwed up and my prick trembled, the release sending tingling sensations over my body.
Only I think we were spotted; three months after our first meeting at the fair, and one week after I lost my virginity I was kidnapped as I walked to our secret rendez-vous point.
The king withdrew his sword from its holder, his eyes gleaming. “I’m going to tear you limb from limb,” he promised. “You’ll be lucky if I spare you just two days of agony!”
My life was saved by a knock on the door: a messenger falling red-faced into the room as “Irene” hovered behind him. “My lord, the Rhesians,” he cried. “They’ve declared war on us. Immediately.” I closed my eyes as the king snatched the parchment, swore and strode out of the room.
Irene beckoned me. “You’ve got to get out of here. With me.”
“Where are you going?”
“South,” she whispered, pulling me onto the tower staircase. “He’ll be riding North to start a war!”
“He won’t be starting …” My voice trembled. “They didn’t declare war, did they?”
“So what? I faked a declaration.”
“Love,” she replied instantly, pushing open the stable door. “Don’t look like that, I just saved your life. And anyway, Helen of Troy started a war for love!”
“Helen of Troy?”
“It’s a Greek story. Homer’s Iliad.” Her eyes fluttered as she mounted one of the two horses laden with possessions. “I’ll read it to you tomorrow. When we’re safe.”
Featured image from ADF site.