A middle-aged East Asian woman with straight, black hair and olive skin, dressed in a dark, fitted suit and holding paperwork walked through the door and into the well-lit room, where a middle-aged male official who wore a standard uniform, salt-and-pepper hair and beard on beige skin, sat at the table, opposite three young women.
They had all been questioned separately, but said nothing, only agreeing to respond together. Reluctantly, those in power agreed, in any attempt to get information.
"All right. Ms. Mendes, Ms.-"
"My name is Poppy King." One young woman responded, looking forward at nothing in particular.
The male official sighed through his nose. "Your name is Lauren Mendes."
"My name is Poppy King," she responded with exactly the same cadence as before, and the same blank stare at nothingness.
Self-proclaimed Poppy King was a light-copper-skinned woman, curvaceous and average in height, dressed in red lace, with her dark hair, thick and curly, stopping mid-neck. Her shining eyes, equally dark, still looked at the wall.
Poppy sat at one end, next to another woman, this one with dark, almost black skin, the same shade as her own eyes. Her hair was styled in Bantu knots, with a wide nose perfectly highlighted and soft, plump lips. She was much taller than Poppy, but held similar curves. She wore the same red lace style that Poppy did.
The third was a slim girl with porcelain skin, dark eyes, and wavy chestnut hair atop her head in a messy bun. She looked... young. Her records indicated she just turned twenty-one, but her face was cherubic and doll-like.
The curves of her small breasts were, once again, covered in red lace. The exact same style. Exact. Same.
The female official looked to the three young women there, and started speaking again. "Ms. King, then,"
"Yes?" the three answered in unison.
The man shook his head. "This man," he held a photo, "is a felon. He's a thief, an addict, and all-around con artist. He is not your husband."
The photo showed a man similar in age to the male official, with deep brunette wavy hair that went to his shoulders, and a short, but well-covering beard upon smooth, sun-kissed skin. He wore a light, white fabric that seemed to deliberately show chest hair.
The copper and black woman looked at the photo, each with soft smiles upon their faces. The porcelain woman did not, maintaining her gaze upon the light lavender wall.
The female official spoke directly to her, "Elizabeth?"
"Meadow." Poppy corrected.
"Let her speak for herself." The male official responded, noticeably irritated.
The porcelain girl was then looking down, rapidly shaking her head only slightly to each side.
The female official looked to the girl again. "How about we talk, just the two of us?"
"No!" the girl responded, suddenly gasping and looking at the official.
The dark woman gently held Meadow's hand, looking at her face with a soft smile. "It's okay, Meadow," she turned to the official woman, nose flaring, "we won't let them separate us."
The male official groaned. "We know you something. We can help you if you tell us. Just tell us what you know. Where is he? Where are the other women? The children?"
Silence.
"Where. Is. He?" he asked again.
"Go. To. Hell." Poppy nearly spat the words.
The male official palmed his face. "This is just... ridiculous!"
He sighed heavily in disbelief. "You're not a bunch of naturey nymph fairy creatures. You're Lauren Mendes, Aisha Rivers, and Elizabeth Fyodorova. Jesus."
"No." Poppy said. "We are Poppy, Violet, and Meadow."
"King." Violet emphasized.
------
Several months earlier...
Small houses in the forest, built of wood and stone, were filled with women of all shapes, colors, and sizes. They ranged from young adults to the rare middle-aged woman, with tons of children running about. His children.
Poppy and Violet were playing card games with their fellow women, smoking weed and hookah, with many of them on harder substances to their liking. Some were on nearby furniture, in the midst of kissing, and the children were made to go out as their king walked in, blessing their heads as they went.
He was followed by a young, slim woman. Porcelain skin, chestnut hair, and dark, dollish eyes.
"Oh, my loves," he started, playfully kissing many of the women on their faces, hair, and necks as the porcelain girl shut the door behind them.
"Ah," he held the small of her back, and returned to facing the others. "This is my newest drop of perfection. She is to be christened tonight."
"And christened as what, your majesty?" a bronze-skinned Englishwoman with black braids asked.
"Oh, my Dove. My sweet, sweet Dove," he ambled toward the woman, holding her soft face in his firm, but gentle hands. "Meadow," he spoke softly, and gave a small chuckle.
"Oh Meadow," he chuckled quietly again. "I'll never tire of it. I'll never tire of you." He turned to the porcelain girl.
"I thank you, your majesty."
He turned back to the other women. "Prepare the christening. It starts at sunset."
With that, he left, walking into the vast array of adoring women and children outside.
The young, porcelain woman wore a simple, light fabric, just as many of them did. She was taken to a lavender-painted room, rivaling that of the interrogation none of them yet knew.
She removed her simple dress and they trimmed her pubic and armpit hair, keeping it as natural, yet groomed, as their husband and king desired, and rinsed the discarded hair away.
She stepped carefully into the warm bath, filled with bubbles and smelling of lilac, the scent being chosen by the wife Lilac herself.
The women began working over her soft body, gently lifting her legs to run soap and delicate cloths over her skin, and carefully cleaning upon her feet and in between her toes.
