by Artemis Hunt
“What were you wearing, Liz?” Yvette says.
She’s trying to steer the conversation back to me. She knows I’m flustered and unpracticed and she wants my undesirable traits to come out on worldwide television. She wants this segment to be the subject of a hundred million YouTube downloads.
“I was wearing . . . a . . . a harem’s outfit.”
“A harem’s outfit? You mean, like, in the Arabian nights?”
“Yes.” I blush. It doesn’t juxtapose with ‘refreshing’ and ‘innocent’.
“With a bustier and veil and pantaloons?”
“Yes. It was the theme of the ball.”
“Would you consider it a sexy outfit?”
What is she trying to aim for here? That I’m trying to trap Alex? Yvette’s eyes are cunning. She doesn’t care if she’s selling out her future Queen. Maybe she knows something Alex and I don’t.
Oh God, I’m seeing conspiracies everywhere.
I breathe in. “It’s a harem’s outfit. No sexier than any other harem’s outfit. Every maid there was wearing one, so I didn’t exactly stand out in sexiness or anything.”
“She was plenty sexy to me,” Alex puts in.
I’m taken aback. He wants everyone to know he finds me sexy?
Then it strikes me suddenly. Of course he wants everyone to know he finds me sexy. He loves me. He wants everyone to know why he loves me, and being sexy to him is the tip of the iceberg.
Feeling more confident now, I say, “And he was very sexy to me too.”
He smiles back. A lump bolts to my throat. Alex is simply the most amazing man alive.
“And then you started dating?” Yvette cuts in. She knows what she has on camera is gold.
“Yes.”
“Describe your first date.”
That’s easy. I don’t have to lie anymore.
Together, Alex and I complement each other’s stories of our first date on the plane, leaving out the more salacious memories. We talk about our trip to Indonesia – living amongst the natives in wooden huts which are surrounded by swaying coconut trees.
Then Yvette shows a clip of Alex’s proposal to me at the airport, which was obviously taken by someone at the scene.
“This was uploaded to YouTube six months ago,” she explains. “It received one hundred and eighty million downloads. So far.”
One hundred and eighty million! I feel faint. That’s more than Justin Bieber.
Yvette says, “But there are other considerations, Your Majesty. There was the very public announcement of your engagement to Lady Tatiana of Nuernberg eight months ago.”
“Yes. My father announced it. It was one of those things that we . . . disagreed upon.” Alex looks straight into the cameras. “My father was a good, good man and he only wanted the best for me. At least, that was what he thought would be the best for me. Lady Tatiana is warm, lovely woman and she would make someone a splendid wife. It’s just that . . . I happened to fall in love with Liz.”
He gazes at me when he says this, and the rapture is unmistakable. I can almost swoon, as no doubt many women around the world are swooning now. Imagine, the most handsome and eligible bachelor in the world . . . openly declaring his love for me on live television.
Somewhere along the line, I must have done something good. Maybe I saved people in a past life. Maybe I healed old folks and performed many good deeds. How else would I be blessed with a man like Alex now? It’s almost too good to be true.
“So you are officially engaged?” Yvette’s voice is a little husky, as though the emotion has gotten to her.
Alex replies, “Not yet. But that video you saw – ”
“Which appeared on TMZ and tabloids the world over.”
“Yes. It was taken six months ago, right before my father passed away. You can even see the date on the recording. We had to wait for six months to announce our engagement to the world because it wouldn’t be appropriate in our mourning period. Liz has been very patient with me.”
Alex grabs my hand – my cold, clammy, fish-like hand – which rapidly warms to his touch. We smile at each other, and there is nothing fake about it.
*
That night, we embrace each other with a hunger I can’t remember having for a long time. It isn’t merely lust or desire. We lust after each other all the time.
But tonight, everything that we do is layered with unquenchable love. I’m speaking about the deep, deep love of a man and woman who have known each other for a while, peered into each other’s imperfections, and decide that they love each other more than ever – in spite of everything.
Alex enters me in missionary position. I hiss softly as his cock thrusts into my wet, wet core.
“I want to look into your eyes as I fuck you,” he whispers.
His own eyes are dark with desire. Our gazes hold each other’s as he acclimatizes his penis into my tunnel’s girth. It’s amazing how perfectly we fit each other, as though I am the mold and he is the piece that has been torn from me at creation.
He moves within me. His eyes are green and gold and brown and stardust and flecked with every emotion known to mankind. I part my lips.
“Kiss me,” I say.
His mouth lowers to mine. His lips lock against mine in a kiss that goes on and on – until we both let our tongues flow onto each other’s in a searing tangle of flesh. He sucks at my tongue, sucks it as though it is a nipple. At the same time, his hips grind against and into mine. His cock churns and oscillates within me, caressing all the right spots, pushing all my erotic triggers. Little flashes of color explode inside my skull.
I moan and writhe, letting the pleasure wash over me. His mouth refuses to leave mine. We are joined at both orifices – long and wet and prolonged. When he isn’t licking my tongue and mouth, he is murmuring, “I love you, I love you” over and over, as though he can’t assure me enough.
I have never loved anyone so truly and deeply before. My love for him is bone deep, soul deep. It permeates my every cell, right down to the atoms. I love him with every fiber of will in me – my conscious and subconscious. I have never wanted to melt into anyone as much as I want to melt into him right now.
If only we can be together like this forever.
If only.
He drives and drives into me . . . seeming to go on and on. The minutes stretch, and I don’t know how long he has tarried, but with this slow stoking of my intimate senses, it seems infinite. Even my orgasm is slow to build. Pleasure brims just beneath its threshold like little peaks of froth below a glass ceiling.
He is in no hurry and neither am I.
“Turn over,” he says.
He withdraws his wet cock from me – dripping with pre-cum – as I eagerly flip upon my belly. I raise my buttocks as he impales me easily once again from behind. It’s a slippery insertion that needs no effort because I’m so ready for him.
He begins his thrusting again. In, out, in out – a sensuous, joyous rhythm older than time. My hair falls over my face. He lovingly lifts it.
He leans over and puts his lips against the back of my neck. He grazes his teeth gently upon my skin. His rocking amps up a notch. He’s upping the rhythm and the force of his thrusts.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispers.
I am already so overwrought and ready. He cores against my G-spot (oh, he knows my body and its secret passages so well), groaning, and I have no choice but to surrender. My muscles are already weak from the prolonged pleasure. I let them embrace their much awaited spasms, and I flow over the edge myself. Tripping, spiraling out of control. Falling into the vortex of ecstasy and physical heaven, with clouded walls wrapped with so much pulsing red love.
Even in my climax, his love envelops me in an all-consuming hug.
“Oh, Alex, Alex, Alex.” I can’t stop saying his name.
His semen geysers into me.
“I love you,” he says against my skin. “I want to have babies with you.”
As we lie beside each othe
r, spent and awash in sweat, I thank my lucky stars once again for allowing me to love and be loved by this splendid, wonderful man.
We are happy.
Almost too happy.
*
I counted my blessings too soon.
The interview played like a dream in every news channel in the world. It went viral on YouTube, just as Madame Fournier predicted. Moldavia is suddenly on the world map. Tour bookings shoot to the roof. Hotels are overbooked.
Things have never been better.
Exactly two weeks after our announcement to the press, the Archbishop of Moldavia – the very one who conducted the old King’s funeral service – declared on front page headlines:
“I WILL NOT SANCTION KING ALEXANDER’S MARRIAGE.”
8
“He will not sanction our marriage? What does it mean?” I say anxiously.
I expect Alex to laugh it off. To say, “Oh, it means nothing. Just an old man having his usual indigestion.”
But he doesn’t.
His brow is furrowed. He hesitates for a while, and then he says slowly, “There is an old Moldavian law that harkens back to the sixteenth century.”
I have been reading up on Moldavian history but I am in no way as adept in it as Alex.
I say, “Back to King Philip II?”
“Yes. The Philanderer King. He wanted to cast aside his first wife, Celeste, to marry the daughter of a count. But Celeste was a princess of Spain, and the Spanish King was furious that his daughter was to be treated such.”
My heart sinks. I believe I know where this story is heading.
Alex’s features are pained. “Because Spain was rooted in the Inquisition and such, they wielded great power over the Moldavian church. The Archbishop was swayed to the Spanish cause. If King Phillip had cast Celeste aside, Spain would have gone to war with Moldavia, and there would have been no Moldavia.
“Philip finally saw reason. The Church then decreed that all royal marriages must be sanctioned by them for the greater good of Moldavia. Much chastised, Philip passed the law. It has never been revoked.”
Just when I thought we were going to be so happy . . .
There’s a roaring in my ears. I knew it. Alex and I are never, ever destined to be together.
I find my voice, broken as it is. “Wh-what happened to Philip and the count’s daughter?”
“Philip took her as his mistress against Celeste’s wishes. They had many children together. But no, they never formally married.”
Is that to be my fate?
Alex’s shoulders are tense. He seizes my arms. “Liz, listen to me. I won’t let a stupid obscure law made in the sixteenth fucking century to make me rescind my proposal to you.”
“But how? I don’t want you to go against the church.”
“If that’s what I have to do, I’ll do it.”
This is all going wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s a big step to go against the head of the church, even if you’re King. Tatiana was right. None of this would have happened if Alex just toed the line and married her instead, as intended. Now everyone is in a conspiracy against us. There’s much, much more at stake than them merely not wanting Alex to marry a former hotel maid.
Alex says grimly, “I’ll get it sorted out. I’ll have to see the Archbishop.”
I bite my lower lip. “Are you close to him?”
“Uh, no. He never liked me much. He’s Marie’s godfather. He thinks she would make a much better monarch than I ever would.”
Oh.
Alex clasps my shoulders. “Let me take care of it, Liz.”
He hugs me.
I let myself be hugged.
9
I wait anxiously for Alex to return from his meeting with the Archbishop. The TV is on. The newscaster is speaking in French, but I am able to grasp the proceedings now.
The scene on the TV is one of marching protest. University students have taken to the streets against the Archbishop’s declaration.
The newscaster, a dignified man in his fifties, says, “The streets of Moldavia have been turned into mayhem as protestors burn effigies of the Archbishop. King Alexander Vassar and Elizabeth Turner are exceedingly popular with the young people.”
Cut scene to a student protestor being interviewed.
She says into the microphone: “It’s stupid. The Archbishop says he won’t sanction Alexander’s marriage to a common American and the only reason he gives is that it goes against what the old King would have wanted. Come on. I mean no disrespect, but the man is dead! Alexander has to move on. Has the Archbishop even met Elizabeth Turner?”
“Yes,” her friend remarks. “I say let true love rule, not some stupid historical law that no one in this century even remembers.”
I do so agree.
I switch channels. A talk show is going on. A famous Moldavian politician is on air.
He says, “It seems that King Alexander and Elizabeth Turner have the popular backing in this issue.”
The host asks, “So do you think the Archbishop will be swayed by the popular tide? Even the world press has chimed in with their views. The church has already lost ground. Attendance is at an all time low. The Vatican is concerned that youths around the world might turn away from religion because it is deemed outdated in its views.”
“That true love doesn’t triumph all the time?”
“That true love cannot reverse historical tradition.”
“The Archbishop has always openly disapproved of King Alexander’s former lifestyle. He has been quoted before as saying it was ‘godless’. So it comes as no surprise that he is against this marriage, especially since Lady Tatiana has donated much to the churches of Nuernberg and Moldavia.”
“Yes, her father is building a new cathedral. What do you think of this whole matter, Monsieur Flaubert?”
The politician hesitates. “It is tempting to give in to the popular vote. However, it would mean flaunting six hundred years of tradition. Are laws to be repealed simply because a new monarch doesn’t like them? King Henry VIII separated the Church of England from Rome for that very reason. But we are no longer in the sixteenth century.”
“Indeed. Big debates are opening up all over the world on this.”
The door whines open. I jump. Alex comes in, looking tired. From his grave features, I know that he has been unsuccessful in swaying the Archbishop.
“No luck?” I say.
He shakes his head. “He says it’s not what my father would have wanted.”
My heart sinks to my stomach. I know for a fact that is true.
“But I see the hand of my mother in this. Not only my mother, but Nuernberg. They intend to push us into a corner.”
He gazes at the images onscreen, his eyes glazing. More student marches are being held.
He says, “This is not what I want Moldavia to become. I don’t want the people to go against the church.”
“Can you try to talk to him again?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve talked to my mother, Liz. She is completely on the Archbishop’s side. That’s why she was so calm when I announced my intent to marry you earlier. She knew this would happen.” His voice turns bitter. “In fact, I think she orchestrated it.”
I am not surprised.
I remain silent, my mind churning with possibilities.
“They are pushing us into a corner, Liz. Everywhere we turn, they put obstacles in our path. There’s too much at stake for everyone where Nuernberg is concerned. They are determined to make us jump through hoops until I do what they want.”
His face is anguished as he turns to look at me.
“Even though I am King, they intend to make me their pawn. When will it end?”
My gut wrenches painfully.
We were so happy . . . so happy.
I close my eyes.
I know what I must do, and I’m not going to involve Alex.
*
The Archbishop agrees to meet me in his private quarters in the Ecclesiastical C
astle. Everything is Spartan there. There is no fire in the fireplace, even though it is winter. The coals have not been stoked. The furniture is made out of hard wood as though to drum penitence into those who choose to occupy these chambers.
Oh no, I think. He is a hard man. He won’t be easy to sway.
He is as stern-looking as I remember him. He does not smile as he gets to his feet.
“Ms. Turner?” His accent is heavily French.
“Your Grace.” I curtsey.
I shiver, wrapping my coat around me. The castle is chilly. How does he stand it without a heath fire or radiator?
“Please, have a seat.” He waves to one of the two chairs in front of his desk.
I seat myself in the left one. It is as hard as I imagine it to be.
We exchange mild pleasantries.
“Are you a Catholic, Ms. Turner?”
“Uh, no.”
He does not say anything to this, though the slight curling of his mouth suggests that he possibly thinks I’m as godless as Alex.
Not a good start.
He waits attentively for me to begin.
“Your Grace, I know Alexander has been to see you.”
He nods.
“I beg of you to reconsider. We . . . we . . . ” I cast my eyes down desperately. He intimidates me so. “We love each other very much. We just want to be together. Surely love has to count for something.”
I raise my pleading face to his. I don’t know what I must have been thinking – that my declarations of love for Alex would melt his hardened heart perhaps. That he would take one look at me and know that I am not an opportunist . . . perhaps.
He says harshly, “Is it love, Ms. Turner, or a desire to be Queen?”
“My desire is to be with Alex forever and to have his children.”
“As Queen.”
“I would have loved Alex even if he was a commoner.” Tears spring to my eyes. Why is this clergyman so stony and forbidding?
