Father sat smugly on his throne as we awaited the arrival of the notorious crusader, Bohemond of Taranto, and his northern cohorts. The new palace at Blacharnae was a marvel of marble, porphyry, and mosaic, and father relished any chance to show it off. I did not care much for it—it was merely a place for me to sleep and eat. I would care for it more, I knew, once the library was finished and filled with all the manuscripts and scrolls that I often have found solace in. I had never had much interest in my duties as a royal, much preferring to read and write, learn and philosophize. Rumors passed as news of the crusaders, I had heard. My father was privy to the true information as the emperor, but he never deigned me worthy enough—smart enough—to pass on the knowledge to.
When the northerners arrived, I was sitting on a silk covered cushion on the floor of the dais. I had kept my posture for so long that my back was tensing with spasms and I longed to relax. I was interested in the Crusaders only vaguely. After all, these men from the west had invaded our lands with the permission of their pontiff, all the while saying they were fighting on our side. All they did, I knew, was slaughter the heathens—and some of the darker Levantine Christians—with abandon and glee. We at the emperor's court hated the heathens, wanted them off of our land or else in our religion, but were far too sophisticated to be bothered with such paltry activities like massacre and starvation and war. We preferred to sit beneath the palm frond fans in a slaves' hand at our cool, stone palaces, munching on a mezze before us, and sipping wine, which is precisely why father tolerated the presence of these bulky, blonde, and filthy foreigners.
But he wasn't filthy. He was large and muscled and blonde, but when he walked through the portico and into the hall, I was rapt. No man had ever had such a visceral effect on me, but I had always attributed this to my youth. Before today, I had never seen a man that I wanted to throw myself upon, and drink from his skin, and feast on his aura. When he bowed low and respectfully to my father, I saw the muscles flex beneath his clothes, like a downwards chain from his broad shoulders to his sharp calves.
I was young and naive in the ways of romance, but when Bohemond looked at me with his penetrating gaze, I knew just what he wanted. At the very first glance, his eyes were dark and lustful and we both knew right then and there that I was his for the taking. He hungered for my untouched royal cunt, longed to handle and suckle my breasts, and run his large, battle-calloused hands over my lithe body. My breath caught in my chest, leaving me struggling for air. As he spoke pleasantries to my father, I could feel him looking at me from the corner of his eyes, and the spot between my legs began throbbing and leaking. I was surprised at myself; I had felt urges there before, but nothing so tangible as what the Crusader was making me feel. I feared that a wet spot should appear on my gown, though I was mildly thrilled that my pleasure should be so noticeable.
Throughout the evening meal, my spine was stiff with wont. I needed to be touched by Bohemond. My body was extending itself to reach him if it could, but I remained still in my seat. I allowed myself to squeeze my thighs together, giving me a form of self-relief, but it wasn't enough. For the first time in my young life, I longed for my virginal cavern to be filled with a man, and I knew Bohemond was to be that man.
When I returned to my bedchamber that night, there was a package waiting for me on my bed. I opened it to find a note, a tiny jar of oil, and a smooth wooden rod about the length of my forearm and the width of two of my fingers. The note was written in messy, imperfect Greek and read:
"Anna-
Coat the rod with the oil and stick it up your cunt. Don't stop until you start to bleed—no matter how badly it hurts. I will have you, and I want you to be ready for me.
-Bohemond"
I was shocked, horrified, offended, and immensely aroused. The wooden rod wasn't the same as the turgid cock I had imagined and so craved from Bohemond, but it had passed through his hands, and would fill me as I wanted to be filled.
Settling down on my bed, I lifted my skirts and stroked my cunt experimentally. I pulled at the hardened bud, twisting it and teasing it, and dipped a finger into my entrance. My fingertip was immediately coated in creamy wetness and I pushed further in, applying pressure to the soft walls which yielded to my touch. I increased the pressure, soaking my fingers through, thinking of Bohemond's strong, imposing body. His muscles were forged in battle, and filled his body evenly throughout. I imagined his lips upon my lips, traveling down to my neck and breasts, and even further. At this point, I was so wet and lustful that I didn't even need to oil the rod. I reached for it beside me, and with one deep breath, I pushed it through the tight hole and upwards. It's now or never, I thought with the final thrust that broke my barrier. Despite the pain, I climaxed violently with the fullness and deepness of the object, and removed it to release a mixture of my own nectar and blood.
The following day I was dreadfully sore. When I spotted Bohemond across the chapel during morning mass, I sent him a deeply resentful glare, and he smiled indulgently. His blue eyes were flickering with lust and I turned my gaze back to the pontiff before I got too hot in the house of St. Mary of Blacharnae. I had hardly even spoken to the man, yet I was so consumed with lust for him. I could think of nothing beyond his golden hair, and the slight stubble on his beautifully carved face. His muscles quivered with each movement he made and I found that wildly thrilling. I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted anything before.
