Psalm of Love

This story is based roughly on Psalm 45, a royal wedding song in the Hebrew Scriptures. I have changed some of the translation, to fit this unique context.

The king of the world sighed deeply. Perhaps it is a cliché, but the powerful are rarely happy. The king is grateful for his power, the authority he wields. Even Egypt and the bickering Mesopotamian countries acknowledge his primary place among these equals. And he gives praise to the Most High for his rule.

That said, his majesty mused, the king is desperately bored. The requirements of his office were innumerable and repetitive. In his younger days, he planned battles and outmaneuvered opponents. He gave wise judgements and counsel. But in these days there are ceremonies galore. There is the weekly group gathered to complain about the taxes. There is the daily offerings. There are daily council meetings. The building projects still fascinate him at the beginning of the process, but once the planning is all done and he just has to wait a decade or so for them to finish.

And, of course, for the sake of the office, the king faces the "pleasure" of a new woman almost every night. Or close to it. If he requests a particular one, he could see her... at the most once a week. But every wife wants her "shot" at having a son. Every wife wants her opportunity to tell him what the problems are with the empire from their isolated point of view. Every woman wants him to try the "latest" perfume or oil, all of which are intended to entice him, excite him.

Frankly, it is all a bore. He married most of these women just for their political clout. They hold no real interest in him nor he for they. All these women are the same. They must be dressed up by the same stylist, because their clothes and hair have little or no variety. In their limited way, they think that what is "fashionable" to them is interesting to their husband—as if he pays attention to the current fashions. That is the focus of his wives, to maintain and control the fashion trends of the empire.

Sexually they are all the same as well. He is required, according to his vows, to grant each woman sexual opportunities. To be fair, then, he needs to see one each night, and that would give them each one opportunity a year for sex. They might use it for their own pleasure, for political purposes, for an opportunity for a child—whatever. But once a year is what they have and that means, in all fairness, that he must be sexual every evening. No breaks—unless he is sick in bed, and even then he has heard a wife complain, "If he is in the bed anyway, why can't we just do what we please. All he has to do is lie there." He moaned. He wished that he could be sick for a week. Or a month. He could really use the break.

He sighed again. Best to prepare himself for the next visit. Dull, yes, but necessary. He casts his clothing aside and lies on the bed. Tired. A really long day. Hopefully he will be able to fulfill his duties tonight. For a while he hasn't been able be excited enough to climax—at least without an enormous effort. Mostly on her part. He just isn't interested enough to try, except to get it over with.

A chambermaid moves from the corner to straighten the bed. She had been in the room the whole time to take in the king's silent musings and his discarding of clothing. Slaves are there, but are rarely noticed. Most move on so quickly, as well. But he has no time to worry about shyness or shame in front of a lowly servant. He barely notices her. It is the task of a slave to remain unnoticed. He wouldn't have noticed her tonight, if she had just done her job. If she hadn't spoken.

He thought he heard her speak. But that couldn't be right. A lowly chambermaid would certainly not speak to the king of the Empire unless asked. Called to. But... there it was again. She spoke again—possibly even repeating what she had just said. That was bold.

Too bold. He said, "If the king wishes for a slave to speak, then he would request it. Be not bold to place yourself in honor before a king, lest he smite you and refuse to raise you up again." Servants did not need to be reminded of their station. She was lucky he was too depressed to beat her.

Only after his wise counsel did he hear what she said. He sat up. "What did you say?"

She bowed before him and stared at the ground. "Your slave asks what my lord is waiting for this night."

He stood up and paced around her, interested enough in this anomaly to have forgotten to replace his robe. He walks around her and stares at her more. As is common for slaves, her long black hair is tied back and she is wearing a plain white shrift. Were it not for the bulge at her chest, she would be sexless, invisible. Her hands are behind her back, which is odd, for most slaves keep their hands before them to quickly serve their masters. But the king shakes his head free of these musings. "Say that one more time."

She repeats, word for word, what she had just said.

He walks around her again, then commands, "Stand up. Be raised before your king." She stands, with her face still bowed. He glances her over and then demands, "Place your hands before you." She hesitates but a moment—"Just as I thought," he murmered, "for what slave would hesitate?"—and reveals her hands to be soft and carefully manicured, with nails that are fashionable for the times. The king smiles, and then frowns. So it is one of his wives. As play, or as a spy? His voice was firm, but not unkind as he commanded, "Let your face be raised before your king, for he has chosen to acknowledge you."

As she lifted her head, the king spit out, "Lily! What are you doing? What kind of get up is this?" For, before him is his queen, his first wife, the ruler of his household. He is offended by this appearance. No announcement, no preparation time. And she sat there in the corner as he was thinking about how bored he was by her—by all of them! What if he had mused aloud? That could have easily happened... then what? Political turmoil. In his own household! A mutiny of wives! His council of wise men would certainly have chided him for that.

But it was not just the deception, but the clothes she was wearing. Should she have worn the vestments of a queen, she would have worn seven garments—each one indicating the greatness of her rank and marriage. She, the queen of the world. And should she strip before her king and husband, even he would have to wait until every garment is carefully placed by slaves into the hands of another slave, who waited simply to hold the garments of the queen. But today, there were no slaves, no pomp, no waiting. Her single thin garment even had a hole in it—although small and modest. "Completely inappropriate for a woman of your rank! I can't believe you would dress yourself thus. Take that silly costume off, immediately!"

Quickly, as a slave who is accustomed to obey rather than think for oneself, she stripped it off, quickly displaying her delicate skin—colored tan, yet lighter than most beauties of the kingdom. Her lines were perfect, ample breasts, but not grotesque, slightly rounded belly, hips meeting her thighs in a perfect line toward her groomed pubic hair. But she is not excited by her exposure. She lowers her eyes before her lord, as she is not allowed to lower her head or bow, as he had commanded her to raise her face. But it is clear that the shame of nudity was resting heavily on her, although he shared the exposure. "It is fine, my dear. We are friends here. Have we not been in this position before?"

She stammered as she spoke, "My lord, I have not been here before. I have been bought just recently, from the Ammonites."

The king of the world chuckles. "You are no slave girl, my dear one. No slave girl would have so much weight, so great a blessing in fatness." He stroked her belly sweetly.

She smiled inwardly at his compliment, basking in the praise of her beauty. And, indeed, if the king fed his people well, no less did he treat his wives. She was not obese—not in any way—but she was plump, at the height of beauty for her people. She was older than most of his women, around 30, but her pregnancies have only increased her loveliness, causing her slender belly some roundness and a fullness to her breasts that she encouraged over the years.

Although pleased at his saying, she did not let her joy show on her face, remaining sober. "My master teases his slave. He has seen all the beauty of the world, and the nakedness of a thousand women. Surely his wives grant him greater pleasure than a common slave?"

He smiles. At least this night is different. Strange, yes. A queen posing as a slave girl? Unheard of... Perhaps to do so secretly—to discover court secrets, that would be understandable. But to openly present oneself to one's master as a lowly slave? Strange indeed. Who would want to be thought of as lowly? Who would want to be humbled? Almost ... perverse. Well, it is well known that the king desires a little perversity now and then. "Perhaps," he mused aloud, "a common slave could know how to please her king better than all of his wives or sex slaves. Perhaps a common slave is his desire." He leered in her direction.

Stoic, she responds, "I know little in the ways of love. The king's wives prepare daily for his pleasure. And the king's sex slaves are trained in the thousand movements of pleasure. I am but a lowly slave. I know nothing of pleasing my king."

At this little speech he was surprised again. He is just beginning to accept that a queen might put on a slave's clothes and do the dance of a slave. But surely she is here to please him. Surely she desires another prince in her womb—and the coin for that ransom is his pleasure. Pleasure is something he had been lacking. He does find this comedy to be more interesting than all the oils, perfumes and positioning of the last few months. But to say that she knows nothing... that is beyond comprehension. Never would a woman enter his chamber claim that. Even a lowly slave girl, should she possibly consider herself worthy of his seed, would claim that she was the greatest undiscovered lover the world has ever known. Look at all the women who pranced through this bedroom—all claiming great abilities, even if they left him as soft as a wet blade of grass.

As she stood in the middle of the room, shamefully naked, the night breeze hardening her nipples, she continued, "My lord, I am sorry to disturb you so. I do wish I could bring you pleasure. But although I am lacking in the training of love, I do know a song. Perhaps I could please you in this manner."

He shifts and considers. This is suspicious. What is she thinking? Not trained in love, she says, but a song. A battle hymn? A praise to Yahweh? He had almost tired of the psalms from his father—he would play such psalms ad nauseum. But a song from the queen... that would be interesting. "Well, slave. If you do not plan to please me with love, then a song would be adequate. You may proceed."

He sits at the edge of the bed, comfortable, as if the slight chill meant nothing to his nude skin. He was ready to listen to some diversion. Perhaps a battle poem, then. That would be of interest.

"I am inspired to make words in my desire

Stirred to speak speech of pleasure."

She kneels down before him, bowing in humility. Her back is stretched in front of him as a vast land, waiting for him to take possession. Her dark hair floats upon her skin as foam upon the sea. He touches it, caresses it, and it is compliant to his every move. Below the hair, he notices that she is trembling. Trembling with fear? he wonders. What could his queen possibly be afraid of? Or is she trembling from the desire she speaks of? Perhaps this diversion has more to it than what can be seen on the surface. If she is desiring—what could she want? What is her pleasure? But then again, who can understand a woman? Of all the mysteries the king has revealed, this mystery is beyond his grasp. He listens more carefully...

"I speak for my sovereign

I act for the king."

Still bowed, she shyly touches his feet, caressing them and kissing them. He is strangely moved by her lowliness, her willingness to be humiliated in this way. How could a woman of so high a position lower herself by touching feet? Even a king's foot is shameful to touch. She must truly desire something great. Is she after a portion of his kingdom? It must be something that he would not generally give. She is nervous. And is certainly acting strangely. She moves to sit at his feet and her mouth moves up his legs to his knees, and she rests her breasts on his calves. Her gentle movements stir him and causes his member to stir slightly. But he is more curious than aroused.

"I speak quickly, as an administrator."

She licks his kneecap. Not seductively, but with deep longing. Her hands go between his knees and gently suggest the spreading apart of his legs. Perhaps her desire is as simple as a night's pleasure. He nods assent to her request, and his legs open wide as he sits on the edge of the bed. Her hands move up his thighs, slowly, and then back down again, and then up, playing a dance of closeness and distance that stirs him even more. Then she touches his penis, caressing it, stroking it and swirling her fingers around it. She moves her body between his legs. He complies by resting his feet under her buttocks, soft and warm.

"My tongue moves as the pen of a scholar."

Her fingers lift his member up and places it in her mouth. It is still soft, and it fits within her mouth easily. He feels himself surrounded by warm silkiness. Her tongue darts over and around him, stroking his tip repeatedly. Her hands work him as well. She caresses his sack with one hand, gently fondling his balls. Her mouth presses further on his quickly growing shaft, but her tongue does not remain still. She gulps on him, pressing on his organ from all sides. Then she slides the shaft down, out of her mouth, and her other hand rubs her mouth-water into him, stroking him. Then she pulls his sex back into her, slowly, and then pushing him out, her hand and tongue never ceasing its gentle labor upon him.

She works her tongue quickly, and shows no hurry to move on to the next stage, to continue in her poem. He remains inside her mouth for many minutes, contemplating in silence, but watching her with wide open eyes. He strokes her hair as her head floats over his lap, and eventually, slowly, his manhood becomes erect, and soon all she has is his tip in her mouth. She lifts off of his sex, but does not retreat from his person and addresses him again.

"You are handsome, My Lord."

She carefully pushes him back onto the bed, with her breasts resting on his hips, covering his hard member. She strokes his flat stomach and his chest, feeling his hair and lingering at his nipples. She pinches them, gently, and then strokes his stomach again. She notes, pleased, that his nipples are as erect as his shaft. So that he does not lose interest, she strokes her breasts around his swollen penis. She bends her head down and licks the tip and then swallows it up between her mounds of flesh, squeezing them against his sex with her upper arms. Her hands, meanwhile, continue to lightly caress his chest, stroke his nipples, and outline his muscular torso with her finger tips.

She carefully lifts herself up higher, releasing his penis from its fleshly prison. Although in the midst of enormous pleasure, he notices that she is directly above him. This, he thought, is not humble. Perhaps her game goes a little too far. Did she feign humility just in order to see her king humbled before her? But he did not want her to stop. This diversion was pleasing. Quite pleasing.

"Beauty tumbles from your lips

So you are blessed."

Her chest rested upon his, and she touches his lips, outlining them with her fingers. Her thumb then strokes their fleshly goodness, as she licks her lips. She leans down and kisses his lips softly, barely touching them. He responds as if to swallow her up. His lips devour hers, he strokes her bodice, and cups her buttocks with his palms, pressing his hands into her flesh. She responds by stroking his face and hair and then by grasping his shoulders. Her wet sex is pressed against his, and his legs open wider and stretch around her thighs. Never has he felt this way. She is not simply the obedient servant, but is taking him and his desire is tight within his chest. She draws closer to him and kisses him deeply upon his neck. His hand strokes her back and presses her breasts tighter against his chest. His penis strains against her rough mound, trembling upon her with pleasure.

She licks his neck and moves down to his shoulders and she straightens her arms on either side of him, her torso now tented above him. He strokes her breasts, pressing them together, and then pulls them to his open mouth... but she sits up all the way, escaping his grasp, allowing her ample flesh to rest upon her chest, nipples still raised. She places her thighs on either side of his, with his penis standing at attention before her upon his stomach, awaiting her touch. Looking down on it, she chants,

"Your power is mighty!

Your weapon rests on your thigh."

She rubs his member and then squeezes it, lifting it up. It is tall and magnificent—taller than she had seen it since the early days of her marriage. Harder than the smooth stones the young wives practice with. Thicker than her wrist, usually bejeweled with bracelets. Yes, she thinks, I am doing well—his scepter is raised toward me, to welcome me.

His eyes are shut as she strokes him, squeezing his tip between her fingers and stroking his shaft with her other palm. He moans beneath her care, and she hears the desire of her husband, "Wetten me, my love. Let me feel your sweet juices and your squeezing grasp again." He calls me to surround him, to complete him. My time is come. Grasping his shaft, she raises her thighs above him, placing his tip upon her slit and strokes it there, allowing her wetness to cover his tip. Then, quickly, with his body stretched out below her, she rests herself upon him, allowing him to pierce her deeply, as her weight rests upon his pelvis.

The king gasps from both pleasure and shock, and he quickly opens his eyes. He sees her above him, eyes shut, basking in her glory. Fury sparks in his heart and grows as realization strikes him. Finally! He knows what she was after the whole time. "So now I know—you did not wish to please your king. You were after your own glory." Her eyes opened quickly, absent of any pleasure, and stared at him in fear. She began to climb off of him, but his continuing erection made this difficult, as she could not move to the side. "You planned in your heart raise yourself upon your king. You thought to rule him on his own bed! To humble him below the wiles of a woman. Never!"

She tried raising herself off of him, but to do this, she put her hands on either side of his shoulders. Her breasts hung over him, mocking his lowliness. He pushed her down beside him and stood up on the floor, towering over her, his penis sticking straight out toward her, as if in accusation. Then he roughly grabbed her shoulder and threw her off of the bed to the floor.

She gasped in sudden pain, but just as quickly it faded again. He did not harm her, she told herself, yet she held her bruised shoulder and lay there, quietly. Tears came to her eyes, unbidden, as she knew she had been wronged. She had no plans to lord it over her husband and king—rather it was an attempt to make him fertile and loving again. For many months, perhaps years, wives have complained to her that he would not release himself into them. That he lay there and go through the motions of sex, but his lack of interest was overpowering their abilities. This was a national disaster. The king's sexual ability is a treasure, even as the gold guarded by powerful warriors. To have children, sons especially, by the king means the strength of the nation. The more royal sons, the more strength. Although he might find the nightly ritual diverting, the wives knew better—they were providing for the future security of the nation.