Edge of Lust: Myrna

At first it wasn't much. Just a peripheral acknowledgment that he was handsome. Hatred of the union and of this pompous man was too pervasive and clouded all other emotions for Myrna.

It was late one evening, when Myrna had coaxed enough wine into a disappointed Genevieve to lull her to sleep despite being jilted yet again by her absent husband. Perhaps she had partaken a bit too much, herself, in the process, and she was down in the dining hall, retrieving her embroidery when she heard scuffling and grunting.

Grabbing the back of a chair for support, she furrowed her brow at the noise, wondering if one of the stable boys had snuck into the castle, when the tall doors flung open and a drunken Frederick stumbled in.

She was too disgusted at first to feel anything else, scowling and looking down on the tottering fool, contemptuously. Knowing he was beyond coherence, she muttered some curses under her breath and gave him a wide berth as she made her way out of the room. But he surprised her with snatching her wrist as she walked past and elicited a yelp from her.

"Don't go away now," he slurred, making an attempt to raise his head. "I'm home. Aren't you surprised?"

She hissed disgust, attempting to free her hand, but his drunken weight sank into his grasp and she struggled to pry his fingers from her.

"I didn't come back all this way just to have you dismiss me outright," he struggled to stand as he spoke to her. "Percival says I don't pay enough attention to you. Says some other bloke will snatch you up while my head is turned if I don't take some action."

Myrna continued to wriggle under his grasp but was distracted, listening to his words.

Frederick brought himself to full height now, standing straight, if a little unbalanced. "There now," he grinned a stupid, reeking smile. "I'm not so bad, am I? Just have to get to know me." He was staring right into her eyes now, though his were glazed. "You're not so bad yourself. You've got pretty eyes. I always thought they were blue. But I much prefer brown eyes. They match your hair." He reached out a clumsy hand to stroke her wild curls. Myrna stiffened under his touch, but he didn't seem to notice.

Frederick leaned forward to breathe in the scent of her hair, and his scratchy cheek brushed briefly against her soft one.

"You smell like wildflowers!" he burbled, giggling at his own delight, and causing Myrna to even chuckle lightly at his stupid sincerity.

His mirth caught him off balance and he struggled to regain his posture. For one brief moment, he stared, blankly at Myrna, seeing if he had his feet steady beneath him.

Then he reached out and grasped her breast without warning. It was such a surprise that Myrna could only react to the sensation, and her breath caught as she was instantly aware of his long fingers flexing and pressing firmly on her round bosom. She had no defense, no indignation even, because her mind had still not even registered what was happening.

"Huuuuhh," he said curiously, but analytically. "It's a lot softer than it looks. And bigger," he squeezed a few times, nodding to himself at his observations. "Let's try the other."

Myrna was about to protest when her 'no' was arrested in her throat as a scintillating sensation crept through her body. She could remember the one time, with the messenger boy, before Genevieve's insistence on maintaining her own chastity persuaded her to stand in solidarity with her best friend. She remembered the thrill when he'd first touched her breasts and she'd nearly melted, knowing this was what she had been missing.

Now, the solidarity with Genevieve technically could be broken. Genevieve was no longer a virgin and by this man too. Now here, being groped by the husband of her best friend, she entertained a perverse sense of fairness that she should share him too.

It was foolishness. She knew it. And she knew, further, that Frederick didn't think he was groping Myrna. In his stupor, it was Genevieve he was rediscovering.

A delighted groan broke her from her reverie and she suddenly was aware that she was being pressed into a chair, and her bodice being slid open. Now it was mild panic that she felt, but still she could not force words to her lips. She could hear his salacious inhaling as her buxom chest broke free of its garments. And when, again she made an attempt at speech, she felt her words sucked away with a shuddering gasp as Frederick's thumbs, still dirt crusted from the hunt, slid gently down the length of both breasts.

"Ooh, I like this," he hissed, repeating the action. "You've never reacted this way before."

And for some reason, that broke the spell. The confirmation that it wasn't really her that was being adored. Myrna snapped to her feet and fled the room before Frederick could speak even one word.

~ ~ ~

Her hatred for the king didn't fade. She still hated his as much as she ever had, it even grew more vibrant, but more desperate too as it coupled with insane desire. A wild lust gripped her whenever he was near. She imagined his hands encircling her wide waist, saw him lift her effortlessly and take her on the dining hall table. She envisioned her own boldness, grabbing his cock with her bare hands and coaxing it to spit forth glee and pleasure, all for her.

And her fantasies made her hate him even more. The more she hated him, the more she wanted him. In this fevered state, anything he did increased her madness. If he were flippant or dismissive of Genevieve, it kindled deeper loathing in her that begged to manifest itself in violent passion. If he was thoughtful and tender to Genevieve one day, it proved his humanity despite all his failings and her insides screamed to be ravished by him. Each day, she grew to hate him a bit more, and herself too.

Throughout it all, Myrna never felt anger toward Genevieve. True, her mistress was now in direct competition to her. But she didn't see it that way, never directed her frustration toward her cherished friend. Envy, longing—these emotions might surface when she came to brush her lady's hair after a night with the king. But never resentment. All her frustrations pointed toward Frederick, and she grew in loathing day by day.

In her altered state of mind, it was impossible to trust her own judgment. But it seemed to her that Frederick was growing wilder too. More possessed of a spirit of recklessness and dangerously close to violence. They saw less of him as he grew more prone to multi-day long hunts and carousing with his knights. When they saw him, it was as if one wrong word, one misguided remark—even one breath of wind from an unexpected direction—would be enough to tip the balance against them and he might erupt with a magnificent anger more terrible than either of them could imagine. This may have been all in Myrna's head. It was growing more difficult to distinguish reality from daydreams, so nightmarish were they both.

Myrna took to roaming the halls late into the night, wandering aimlessly while the king was away on yet another epic hunt. She listened to the echoes of her own footsteps and pretended not to notice the fury bubbling one thin layer below the surface. Tapestries filled her eyes, and she ran restless fingers along their soft folds as she traversed the passageways night after night, going nowhere.

A light glowed up ahead, piercing the darkness as Myrna never lit these sojournings. At the same time, a deep scuffle sounded, and she instantly froze in place as she saw come around the corner, a lurching Frederick.

She wasn't sure if he even saw her, so focused was he on simply remaining upright. He was failing quite miserably, grasping the tapestries for support and more than once pausing long enough that it looked as if he had lost the battle to be bipedal.

He blinked a few times, heaved in a deep breath while Myrna remained motionless, watching him. She swore she made no noise, was as silent as the thick tapestries covering the halls, yet, somehow, Frederick drew his head up sharply and, for the first time, was aware of her presence.

It was a standoff between them, neither making a move. Myrna's dark eyes were solemn, betraying nothing in the flickering light. Frederick's hard stare did not leave her, but his hand reached out with surprising deftness to place his torch into a nearby sconce. And in one large bound, he was at her, crushing her with raw kisses and fiercely grasping at her body. Mentally, Myrna removed herself from the situation, so much that she was almost unconscious of what was being done to her body. Though she allowed herself to enjoy what little registered, it happened so quickly, she almost missed even that.

Frederick hiked up her skirts and his thick, hard shaft was suddenly within her. It hurt, which Myrna found she didn't mind. Other than that, she felt little except confusion since the gossip among the Gwennel Castle's servants had always been that drink rendered men incapable of getting hard.

She wasn't sure when it ended or how she ended up back into her small room adjacent to Geneveieve's chambers. But the next morning, when she lay beneath the covers and blinked into the light of a new day, the ache between her legs filled her not with anger, but with a craving for more.

~ ~

It was early one evening, day had not yet fled, and twilight was about to make its entrance, when Myrna ran into the king, as he gently closed the door to the queen's chambers. Myrna had left them undisturbed—always Genevieve's wish whenever her husband made visits to her personal chambers—and taken the time to retrieve new bedding from the laundry, as she didn't trust the clumsy new maid, Ophelia, to tuck the corners in right.

Surprised, Myrna couldn't stop a yelp from escaping before she collected herself, smoothing the sheets draped over her arms in a professional manner.

"The queen is sleeping," Frederick whispered. "It's probably best not to disturb her at present."

Myrna nodded sharply, unwilling to take orders from this beast. Of course she would not disturb her mistress. She didn't need his warning to dissuade her. She stood in rigid resistance, unwilling to greet him the way a servant ought to meet her master. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction of following his advice.

The king startled her then, by speaking her name. "Myrna," he said in a low, confidential voice. "I know she trusts you. I know you mean a great deal to her."

Myrna humphed. He wasn't telling her anything she didn't know.

"We appreciate your service," he continued. "I appreciate your service." He reached his hand out to place it gently, but firmly on her arm carrying the linens.

She didn't move. She betrayed no emotion. She allowed her king to use this moment to thank one of his servants sincerely. It was nothing more than that.

But Frederick's hand still had not left her's, and her breathing quickened almost imperceptibly. Before she could think much more, his hand had traveled up the length of her arm, and was snaking around her shoulder to her back, while the other narrowed in on her front.

Her breath came ragged now. A distinct pulling at her left breast came into her perception, and the king's right hand which was exploring behind her was sliding its way downwards, toward her ample behind, which, she had long known was a major point of arousal for her. Still, she said nothing.

Though she had felt his groping before, had been subject to his penetration even, this felt incredibly different. No strong drink clouded his senses. No drunken lust spurred his curious fingers on. Myrna realized, then, that it was possible he had no memory of their previous two encounters. Perhaps the drink had erased them from his mental history, and she wondered if that indicated genuine desire on his part, if, in his mind, this was the first time they had experienced this intimacy.

Even so, Myrna remained still, her response betraying nothing; unwilling to be a willing accomplice to the betrayal of her lady, though she knew she was screaming begging for it. Granting no indication of encouragement, the onus of the blame would be on this horrible man, and not on the trusted servant and life-long companion of the princess of Gwennel.

His hands, apparently, didn't need encouragement. His right hand formed into walking fingers up her figure till it found the neck edge of her bodice. In her state of non-committal, she made no effort to ease his access, showed no signs that she was enjoying . . . or at least did not attempt to show any signs. Perhaps this seasoned lecher was more perceptive than most.

And now her bodice was being lowered. The pop of each fastener coming loose was as loud as cannonfire, and she struggled to keep her breathing even. Beneath her bodice, liberated from its clasps, the king slid his hand below and found her bare nipple and that was when she could not control her silence anymore. A decidedly audible sigh of pleasure erupted from her lips and the king's fingers squeezed tighter.

She hated herself for responding so visibly. But she had not had the practice, did not know the tricks of playing it cool. And Frederick was taking advantage of that. In fact, his other hand joined the first in sliding beneath the fabric of her clothes to reach her other breast and start pleasuring it as strongly as the first.

Myrna relaxed her arms. She gave no verbal permission. Nothing to convey that she did anything but submit to her rightful king. But Frederick pushed forward and Myrna, god forgive her, gave in as desperately as she allowed herself.

Her bodice was fully split now, Frederick delving his hands deeper into intimacy with her sumptuous, eager flesh. She could feel him gather the fabric of her shift greedily in his fingers. Then feel the shift slip from her shoulders as he gripped the fabric down further and exposed her full breasts beneath the stiff bodice of her dress.

It took all her willpower not to tear the dress from her body. But she clung to her fantasy that no explicit permission granted her solvency from an act of betrayal. And Frederick did not leave her hanging long.

Slowly, deliberately, she felt the outer dress fall from her shoulders, felt Frederick push the clinging fabric from her body and leave her standing in her disheveled underdress. Placing both hands around her back and firmly anchored on her buttocks, Frederick transported the two of them to a nearby room that, while containing no bed, had ample room and a door.

The door slammed shut in the same instance that Frederick's hands were back on her breasts, squeezing, pumping every bit of pleasure they contained. Myrna tried to remain quiet, but over and over slipped pitiful moans from her vocal chords. Which, incidentally, only spurred on the actions of her sovereign.

His lips soon found her breasts, ripping the cotton of her dress to allow his lips to travel to the nethers of her sensation. Not even Grax, the messenger boy had excited pleasures like this, and soon, Myrna made no attempt at discretion. It was like a slithering beast of pleasure, designed for one purpose and one purpose only: to breed pleasure in the woman receiving.

Myrna shoved his head harder into her groin, eliciting a slight jolt from her companion. But reality bore too strong a presence here. She knew he knew. And he knew she knew he knew. But none of this need be mentioned in later times. Only now existed.

She was almost experiencing pain, from how hard she thrust her pelvis against his willing mouth. Perhaps bruises would smart later. For now, it was only to get the servant to please. And in the back of her elevated mind, she realized how she craved this feeling of power and dominance over one in power. A small whimper from the king signaled to her that he too, enjoyed being on the receiving end of such dominance, and her motivation soared.

She shoved his head, again and again, harder and harder into her open and streaming sex. She heard whimpers of his discomfort, but no attempt to extricate himself, though he was, without doubt, the stronger of the two.

This gave her confidence, and she began to raise her body, to not only force his mouth upon her eager labia, but to grind his face into it. This she did, with utter abandon, till the pleasured screams emanating from the regal man moved her to pity and she relented and allowed him to rest his head upon her round belly.

He did not rest it there long. As soon as he regained his breath, he advanced on her face, kissing her with almost pitiful desperation. She could taste her own scent on his lips, and she surprised herself by sucking his mouth into hers, hidden passion awakened by the feminine smell of her own discharges. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, it occurred to her that maybe she was one of those, like the head laundress back in Gwennel, who favored their own kind over the opposite sex. But for now, she enjoyed the opposite sex opposite her now.

His kisses were growing a bit more distracted and she realized he was working to undo his belt to free his own desire. Myrna rolled her eyes at his awkwardness, and tore herself away from the kissing to apply her deft fingers to the task at hand.

In moments, she disposed of the breeches in the way, and freed the eager, stiff cock. She had an objective opinion that it was likely notably large, though her sample size was rather small. So this was why so many favored this idiotic hunk of a man. She swallowed her pride, realizing she was among those fools who found this oaf irresistible.

And then she swallowed his cock into her mouth and was rewarded with the utter submission of the king of, arguably, the most powerful province in the Bldosodofihdiof lands. She chuckled a bit, and sighed at how easy it was. Perhaps she ought not to have had such pretense, in as humble circumstances as she was, but she humored him by taking the potentially giant cock entirely into her mouth and nearly biting down with pathetically minor vehemence, while the man to whom she swore allegiance melted in abject weakness.

But she left off before he climaxed and she missed all else. As soon as she released his member from her mouth, he grew aggressive again, and she found herself on her back with a hard, long, shaft penetrating her waiting gap.

It was Myrna's turn to be helpless. It fit so deeply. So intensely. She was putty in his hands, and he molded a figure of pleasure with his thrusts and his surprisingly adept groping. She grasped him with desperate fingertips, and it was his turn to smile in self-satisfied control.

Her legs, then, circled around his waist and drew him impossibly close to her, strangulating his breath and shoving his body to hers as many times as it took till he trembled, head to foot, with release, and Myrna sagged in guilty elation of what she could never take back.

~ ~

Time passed. Frederick had taken to taking Genevieve to his bed more often. Genevieve was more content now, secure in the knowledge that soon an heir would be on its way. Which left her less in need of continual companionship from her trusted servant.

Myrna stole into hallways where she knew he would be passing. She boldly snuck outside his quarters and hid in the hidden servants' passageway till he stepped outside, then revealed herself. She'd say nothing. Just stand in her plain servant dress, hands at her side, breasts rising and falling as she stared at him with no expression in her eyes.

It only took a few times for Frederick to stop acting shocked and hesitant when he saw her. The inanimate struggle while he decided if it was worth it to risk her being seen entering his chambers lasted not more than twice, and soon he was delaying her entrance only long enough to make a show of temptingly beckoning her. She little was moved by these gestures of attempted romance. But she always took the invitation, entering his room with the same stony expression on her face, and turning to face him as he closed the door behind them.