And apparently, it's all my fault.
"Send for the Royal Flycatcher," she commands.
This silences the room at least momentarily and satisfied I have caused enough damage for the nonce, I retreat unseen to the back of her throne hiding myself on a decorative frieze in the crook of a bishop's miter. From here I can look over the magisterial shoulder and watch for the entrance of the fly slayer.
Ha ha ha. She must be kidding. If flies could laugh and slap their knees I would now be laughing and slapping.
The title of Royal Flycatcher is a patronage appointment in the court of Catherine de Medici and the ancient retainer who occupies the post has been on the royal payroll since Joan of Arc was a girl. On his elaborately costumed back are two wings shaped as my own, made of taffeta, and on his head is a fool's cap with twin peaks each in the form of the eye of a fly. He is equipped with a large net on the end of a pole that he carries on his shoulder like a pikestaff.
I lead him a merry dance.
Flying three inches ahead of his outstretched net at approximately the height of his nose we pirouette among the tables as the revelers cheer him on with shouts of tally ho. I drop back to two inches and then to one. Odds bodkins, he almost has me. But with final lunge of his net he over-reaches, loses his balance and down he goes clutching at a table cloth which sends everything flying before he pitches nose first in an untidy heap onto a platter of greasy pheasant bones.
The crowd loves it. The palace is in an uproar.
The Queen, more than before, is even less amused.
"Away with you fool," says she. "On with the show."
Now the evening's entertainment proceeds to its historic conclusion.
From among the serving wenches one is chosen by popular acclaim and indeed, through the perspective of four thousand lenses all of which have been evaluating the contenders, I can report without fear of contradiction that not a prettier bottom exists in all of France. Its cheeks are pale and flawless, exquisitely firm and round and from the base of her spine to the great divide is a thin line of golden down like the fuzz on a peach. But of all the wenches, clever girl, she has hitherto revealed the least of herself, offering only brief, tantalizing glimpses to the assembled who are lusting and panting to see more. Only I, the fly, can take a closer look, which I now do in the interests of full and complete disclosure. I make a darting foray beneath her skirts, although unlike the oaf Boesse, now sleeping it off in the castle dungeon, I look but don't touch, at least that's my story, and keep a respectful distance from her maidenhood.
Now is the turn of the noble women to bare their bottoms for royal approval and from among these Catherine de Medici will choose her champion to go against the wench. To the music of madrigals the ladies of the court assemble on stage holding hands as they circle the Queen in a slow and courtly dance. They are masked to hide their identity but otherwise are naked except for silk scarves around their necks that hang just low enough to protect their modesty. As they move the silks drift and sway and the audience, now in raptures, drifts and sways in synchronized voyeurism. Finally, with a great roll of drums, Her Majesty makes her choice and bids her champion remove her mask. There are gasps of astonishment. It is the lovely Angèle, youngest daughter of the Duke of Avignon, newly arrived in court.
Now the throng is on its feet. Should the grand winner be the aristocratic Lady of Avignon or should it be the people's choice, the maid Marianne of Armentieres. There is a great clamor in the house and loud debate.
And here, regrettably, I must draw a veil of my own for to identify the winner would be indelicate at best and at worst would attract the retrospection of historians. But I, Doctor Fly, am not quite done yet. As a final act – as my time here is almost up – I will play a choreographer's role. When the winner has received her five gold pieces and in gratitude has assumed a position over the Queen's knee to receive a royal spanking, I make my move. Unseen by the mob which is now jostling for position like revolutionaries at the palace gates, I land on one of her beautiful buttocks and sit there as still as a freckle.
Alas, there is no time to enjoy the moment as I have soon to take evasive action. The Queen's hand falls swiftly and without warning, but whether she's swatting the fly or spanking the bottom it's not clear. By the time her hand lands on one cheek I have jumped to other. Back and forth I go, forth and back, until the buttocks beneath my feet redden and squirm and the recipient of the Queen's largesse utters little mewling cries of pleasure. And then with a nod to the Bishop of Boulogne who I now observe is groping the buttocks of the Dowager Bergerac, I seek refuge in the nether regions.
Mon Dieu!
It's warm and damp down here as you might expect of a maiden in arousal. Moistened and aromatic hairs entangle me like reeds in wetlands. And then in milliseconds I am gone.
Whew.
George hits the save button and shuts down his computer.
Is it hot in here or what, he is thinking.
He throws open the kitchen window and pours a second cup of tea.
Not bad, he thinks, but he is not sure about the ending. However much he was pleased with the subtlety of scale, putting events into perspective as it were, the descent of Doctor Whom into unchartered territory might have to be edited out. He would sleep on it.
Research had opened a new and exciting world for him, far removed from life in Pimlico. After his studies on Catherine de Medici, he had turned his attention to Cleopatra, spending many afternoons at the British Museum, and the next day when he sat down at his kitchen table to write a chapter tentatively entitled Cleopatra's Other Lover he was already thoroughly immersed in Egyptology. He had studied the architecture of the great palaces of the day and he was particularly excited to read in his morning newspaper that the Toposiris Magna Temple, newly discovered by archeologists 30 miles from Alexandria, might be found to contain the tombs of Cleopatra and Mark Antony. He felt sure that this was information he could put to good fictional use.
In October of 44 BC, Cleopatra was 25 and at the peak of her sexuality. Julius Caesar had only recently been assassinated on the steps of the Senate in Rome and it would be three years before she took Mark Antony as her lover. Dressed as Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, she had sailed from Alexandria in a boat with silver oars and purple sails to meet him at Tarsus on what is now the coast of Turkey. Typical Cleopatra, George thought to himself, although he had to admit he admired her style. Here was a woman who was aggressive, even predatory in her sexuality and was empowered because of it.
That the illfated lovers had challenged Caesar Augustus for control of the Roman Empire struck George, the consummate civil servant, as impressive. "Control of the Roman Empire," he marveled, "imagine that?" He knew how difficult it was to get the attention of Putney & District council, let alone control an empire. And when the lovers were defeated in battle and chose suicide rather than capture, he by falling on his sword, and she by clutching a poisonous asp to her breast, he empathized. Memories flooded back of the love of his life and the sudden death she suffered in a faraway land. He would have preferred a happier ending.
Three times he went to the Globe Theatre on the south bank of the Thames to see Antony and Cleopatra. When Antony lay dying, George, front and center at the matinee performances, mouthed Shakespeare's words in perfect sync with the players.
Antony: I am dying, Egypt, dying. Only I here importune death awhile, until
Of many thousand kisses, the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.
And one act later, before she puts the asp to her breast…
Cleopatra: The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts, and is desired.
And then it struck him. In Shakespeare's day pinching was synonymous with spanking. In George's mind, although he conceded there was some literary license, her choice of words was proof of her desires. In any event, his hero, Doctor Whom, now in the guise of a masseur at her palace in ancient Egypt, would be delighted to indulge her. Erotic
ally disciplining Cleopatra, what a concept, George thought. When that lady bares her bottom, it will be a spanking for the ages.
He spent hours watching the movie starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, two of his favorite actors. The on-location filming, the dialogue and the extravagance of the costumes brought ancient Egypt alive for him in a way the British Museum had not. One scene in particular with its not so subtle double entendre he thought offered further evidence, if any were needed, of Cleopatra's sexual appetite.
Cleopatra: On your knees.
Antony: You dare ask the Proconsul of Rome to –
Cleopatra: I asked it of Julius Caesar. I demand it of you.
So George, his notes at his side, scrupulously collated and annotated, sat at his keyboard on a rainy morning and began to write. He would start with the scene where Cleopatra first met her masseur and would seduce him within the hour.
As was her custom in the afternoon, Cleopatra swam alone in the sunken pool of her palace on the island of Antirrhodos, followed by a leisurely soak in a bath of milk and honey. Now, wearing a simple robe without the encumbrance of undergarments, jewelry, or other adornments, she relaxed in her boudoir awaiting the services of her masseur. She was only mildly irritated when it was not her usual man Ra who presented himself for the afternoon ministrations, but a handsome young man with olive skin and dark curly hair. She could not remember having set eyes on him before, but that in itself was not unusual. In her household there were many slaves. He bowed before her.
"Who are you? Where is Ra?" she demanded.
"Highness, he is unwell," the young man said. "May it please your Highness, but he has entreated me to take his place these few days until he is recovered and has advised me of your needs. I am Seth, skilled in the latest massage techniques – and some your Highness might not before have experienced – healing practices passed down by my fathers who learned them from Chinese medical manuscripts four hundred years ago.
There was something in his tone and demeanor, a youthful arrogance, that Cleopatra found beguiling and there was no denying he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. Not tall, but perfectly proportioned with the muscle definition, she thought appreciatively, of a Roman god.
Indeed, the Doctor had adopted the most pleasing form possible, modeled on Michelangelo's statue of David, in which to present himself to her, and although he had not spoken Egyptian since his last visit to these times during the building of the Pyramids, the courtly elegance of the ancient tongue came easily to him. Cleopatra had mastered Egyptian that much he knew, being one of six languages she was reputed to speak. She was of the Ptolemaic dynasty, a direct descendent of one of Alexander the Great's generals who had seized control over Egypt after his death. Traditionally, the Ptolemaic spoke Greek and refused to learn Egyptian, but Cleopatra, claiming to be the reincarnation of an Egyptian goddess, had mastered the language to bolster her claim. Now she was pleased to be able to converse on equal terms with this handsome boy who stood before her.
Once again Seth bowed low and indicated with the subtlest of gestures that Cleopatra should approach the massage table. Rich or poor, man or woman, a full body massage in the times of the Pharaohs was customarily taken naked and Cleopatra, without hint of embarrassment or artifice, slipped out of her robe, discarding it casually onto a couch behind her. As she approached, the Doctor averted his eyes, but not before he had marveled at the silky flawlessness of her skin, her shapely legs, the plump and perfect symmetry of her breasts and buttocks. Positioning her on her stomach, he placed a pillow at her head and another beneath her hips, draping her below the waist with an embroidered cloth of the finest Egyptian silk.
"Better that you please me," Cleopatra told him, matter-of-factly. "If you do not I can have you whipped?"
"If whipping me should be your pleasure, Highness," Seth replied, "I will bring you a lash for my back."
Cleopatra smiled inwardly. The boy has wit as well as beauty, she thought. Ra has good hands, but he is unschooled and dull to talk to. This boy, who seems mature beyond his years, might be worthy in more ways than one. She reflected bitterly that it been several months since Julius had been killed in Rome by those sons-of-bitches he thought were his friends. Forced into exile and removed from the comfort of the connubial bed, there was a void in her heart and a longing in her loins.
"If I remember history correctly, you are named for Sethikhopshjef, first born son of Ramesses 11, for I believe that is how he was called in the north of Egypt. You are from the north, are you not?"
"I am," he replied. "I was sent south and sold into your household after my apprenticeship."
Cleopatra moved her hips, minutely adjusting her position, and the Doctor could see the exquisite outline of her buttocks beneath the silk. His manhood began to stir.
"In ancient times, Cleopatra continued, "Seth was the god of wind and desert storms. He was said to be a dark and moody god although people worshiped him so he would grant them and their followers the strength of the storms. Are you dark and moody, Seth?"
"I think not, your Highness. I believe I reflect your Highness's mood, which I divine at this moment to be playful, although I sense a need in you that massage alone will not satisfy."
"Do you, indeed," she said. She was well aware of the power she had over men and now she would test this arrogant boy. Casually she reached behind, casting aside the sheet that covered her. She settled back into position making herself comfortable, undulating her hips now elevated over the pillow.
"You may begin."
The Doctor leaned to his task. Fingers together, hands outstretched, he massaged her in silence for many minutes, working from the base of her spine to her neck employing a sequence of rhythmic gliding strokes, some long, some circular, some firm, some as light as a feather. This was to relax and stretch her muscles and Cleopatra murmured and purred beneath his touch. And if he felt an area of tension he could loosen it in a way no earthly masseur could by making his fingers vibrate, a skill he had learned at the Inter-galactic Wellness Centre on Hyperion during a visit to that planet many eons into the future. His fingertips traced patterns up and down her spine and, as if to reward him, she parted her legs just a little until he could glimpse the dark curls between them.
Cleopatra sighed softly.
"Do you study history, Seth?"
"Indeed I do, your Highness. And the stories of our own times, too. Is it true, as the gossips tell, that your Highness was smuggled into Caesar's presence hidden in a bed roll?"
Without waiting for an answer the Doctor began to massage her legs, pressing his thumbs on her calves, one following the other, then using the heel of his hands, alternatively pressing and kneading the large muscles of her thighs. He allowed his fingertips to rest briefly there, vibrating them softly in sequence.
By this time, Cleopatra was powerless to keep her counsel.
"Yes, it is true." She laughed. "It's quite true. I took with me from among my friends only Apollodorus, the Sicilian, and he rowed me to Caesar's palace in a skiff. When we landed, although it was already getting dark, it would have been impossible to escape notice so Apollodorus had me lay full-length within a bedsack that he bound with a cord and thus carried me on his back to Caesar.
"Were you as you are now?"
Cleopatra giggled.
"If your meaning is, 'was I naked?' Indeed I was not, cheeky boy. But Caesar nonetheless was pleased to see me. He said in my manner of arrival I had shown myself to be 'a bold coquette.'"
The Doctor, now similarly emboldened, bade her raise her hips higher and he placed a second pillow beneath them. Then he gently spread her legs so he could work on each in turn. Beneath the folds of his tunic his manhood became as hard as Byzantine marble.
"Continue, Seth," Cleopatra implored him "By the gods, you have the power of storms, as your name suggests, but you are blessed with the hands of an angel."
Palms together, fingers straight, he began to pummel her thighs and calves
in quick succession, up and down, up and down, beating on them a symphony of sensations. Then he stroked her buttocks, gently kneading and parting them until the twin orbs opened and blossomed and he could see the dark concentric circles of her rose.
Cleopatra shuddered, moving seductively beneath his hands.
"And what else do the gossips say, pray tell."
"They speak of many things," Seth responded. "Plutarch describes your beauty as incomparable and says that you have an irresistible charm, a sweetness in your tone of voice and a tongue like an instrument of many strings."
"Does he indeed. And you, Seth, what say you? Can a tongue be an instrument of many things?"
"You mean like this?" the Doctor stooped and kissed her, parting the fleshy lips of her labia, licking her until she moaned and cried out with pleasure. Skillfully he brought her to the point of orgasm but no further.
"Damn you, don't stop!" she commanded.
"Stop? Why, I am just beginning," he replied. "I offer my services twicefold for your pleasure, first as now with my tongue and then with my cock."
Cleopatra sighed in ecstasy. Let him take his time, she thought, the whole afternoon lay ahead. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled softly and raised her buttocks to facilitate the first of his pledges.
But the Doctor was in no hurry. When you have lived thousands of years it is the precious seconds that make you feel alive.
"And what say they of me in the servants' quarters?" she prompted, her voice barely a whisper.
"They say you are the most beautiful woman on earth with the sexual power to subjugate any man. They say even the mighty Caesar fell to his knees before you." He paused.
"And they say you like to be spanked."
At this, Cleopatra turned and sat up abruptly, putting her hand over her mouth in mock horror. "Liar!" she shouted. "What man would dare say that? Did Caesar? By all the gods in heaven, how dare you! I should have you killed and your carcass thrown to the wolves."
Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown Page 15
