The Messenger - Cover

The Messenger

Copyright© 2017 by RC Smith

Chapter 1: The Bey

Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Bey - A girl growing up in a violent world, a mysterious teacher, torture and death, a cruel king, a young queen. And in the second part, a country in ruins, a man who is not a hero, and a slave girl who slowly remembers that she is.

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Fiction   Snuff   Torture   Caution   Violence  

What I remember most clearly from my first visit to the Bey is not the huge garden with its statues, fountains and flower beds, not the magnificent facade of the palace with its marble columns and its gold-covered turrets, not the grand staircase with its cordon of guards on each side, grim-faced motionless men in leather, their hands on their shiny swords, it is not the audience hall with its stained glass windows, its elaborately laid parquet floor, its precious carpets, its crystal flower vases, its gilded candelabra, its sumptuous upholstered chairs and benches, not the Bey’s exquisitely carved silver-studded ebony throne, and not the imposing figure of the Bey himself — all this I remember, but from my later visits, not many of them, always in the company of my father, first as a child, unnoticed by the Bey, later, when by breasts had started to form, eyed by him, with cursory interest, but never explicitly acknowledged, never spoken to. No, what I remember from this first visit is the girl.

My father’s meetings with the Bey always were private audiences, there were very few people present, one or two of the Bey’s advisors, a servant at a discreet distance, a few guards who kept to the background, after having searched my father for hidden weapons — at my first visit it certainly had been the same, but, as I’ve said, I do not remember it. I only remember her. Naked, of course. I think now that she must have been a recent present to the Bey.

Naked, slim, fair-skinned, small-breasted. All her hair was shorn, on her body and her head, even her eyebrows and her eyelashes. Both her arms were cut off at her shoulders. Her lips and her labia were sewn shut. She did not look deformed, though, the amputations and the sewing had been done carefully, with attention to her delicate beauty. She reclined, almost comfortably it seemed, utterly immobile, with one leg sideways to allow the viewer’s gaze to travel between her thighs, on a small rug-covered recamier. What I remember most about her are her eyes. Huge, dark, wide open, unblinking, they looked at me, her huge dark eyes looked into mine, and I looked back at her, my whole body as immobile as she was, for the whole time that my father and I stayed with the Bey, or so it seems to me in my memory.

 
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