The twenty-one-year-old warlord gazed intently at the fair-haired middle-aged woman. She was very much worth looking at. Her short pants revealed finely tuned legs, her open blouse, and the tee-shirt behind it displayed the fact that she had an ample bosom. The young warlord favored older women. That was, perhaps, an inevitable result of his upbringing. His life had been proscribed and surrounded by women of middle years. Only those women who had borne children and raised them for a certain number of years could serve as matrons in the royal household. Since Kiron had been a small boy, they had bathed him, they had dressed him, they had undressed him. When it came time for him to be initiated into manhood, one was chosen by lot to deflower him. Even to this day, women of a certain age bathed and tended to him. All his baths ended with an exhilarating hand job. Rarely was he given greater release. The matrons kept him on a strict schedule tied to the phases of the moon. His requests for more were ignored. The head matron pointed out that her order had preceded Kiron's grandfather and would, no doubt, still be serving the throne when Kiron's grandchildren were dust.
This woman, however, was outside to tight chain of command of the matrons. All of whom attended to him with a sense of duty, not joy or any real interest in him as a man or lover. The sex was perfunctory at best on their part. Afterward, they patronized him by declaring him the greatest lover they had ever had, like trained parrots! What he wouldn't give for a woman untainted by the strictures and restraints of the palace!
Kiron knew that he should focus his interest on younger women, ones who could more likely provide him an heir. The daughter of this woman was certainly lovely, but she, like others of her age, did not arouse him in the same way her mother did. Here was that something he'd dreamed about for a very long time, a vital, beautiful older woman outside the grip of the matrons. He had gone to war. He had killed men in hand-to-hand combat. He was certainly no longer a child, he had earned and deserved to wield his authority! How was he ever going to become an authentic lover of women if had never known the pleasures of a real one? The matrons were certainly women, but even the most attractive lacked authenticity. The matrons formed a closed circle whose chain he desperately needed to break! It was time he became the ruler he was destined to be. The possibilities delightfully unspooled in his mind.
Cynthia felt the hot gaze of the lad on the throne. His black shirt was tight enough to reveal that he was finely and powerfully muscled. He was remarkably handsome, with black hair and flashing grey eyes. There was a scar below his right eye that only enhanced his attractiveness while still imparting menace. An authentic bad boy, not a poseur. He was the sort of man who attracted attention. The sort of man that a younger version of Cynthia would have done anything to get interested in herself. She read the familiar look in the lad's assessment and felt a shiver course along her spine. The trophies of war about the room, the muscular uniformed men, the suits of armor, and the surely authentic skulls affixed to the walls and ceiling, made it very clear to Cynthia that she and her children were in a precarious situation. On top of all that, to be objectified by a boy not much older than her own son. It was surreal!
She was still trying to make sense of things. What had happened to the world she knew? The landscape had not changed, but what happened to the twenty-first century? She and Doug and Lisa, her children, had been exploring a cave in a canyon in Arizona. There was a slight tremor when the three vacationers hurried out of the cave, they found all... THIS! Armed men on horseback and wheeled vehicles surrounded them. Doug had resisted being taken into custody. He was quickly overpowered. The leader of the soldiers gazed harshly at Cynthia and Lisa and informed them that he would slit Doug's throat if they did not willingly submit to being transported to the palace. A dusty drive ended at an oasis where a walled city reared up. In the center, carved from white marble, sat an opulent structure occupied by the young man who was introduced as "His supreme excellency merciless warlord Kiron, IV, protector of the realm, and holy champion."
Finally, the arrogant lad spoke,
"That is quite the tale, woman. However, it is clearly fiction. Far more likely, you are a trio of spies and saboteurs. I may be young, but I have quite the list of enemies. I killed that nauseating King Peter in close combat and his people vowed revenge. How do I know you were not sent by him?"
"We are not spies, sire!" returned Cynthia.
"The practice of all armies at all times is to summarily execute spies as soon as they are uncovered."
"No, sire!" pleaded Cynthia as she fell to her knees before the ornate throne.
Inwardly Kiron smiled. His men had already deduced that they were not spies. A search had turned up no weapons or contraband aside from a stubby knife. They claimed that they had left backpacks at the entrance to the cave they were spotted exiting from, but nothing had been found in proximity to it. The lad with them was clearly no experienced fighter. The women seemed sincerely stunned and confused, quite unlike genuine spies.
"Why should I not carry out this routine order?"
"Because, sire, we are innocent!"
"Would you stake your life on that? Would you do whatever I ask so that the axe does not fall?"
"Name it, sire!"
"Very well. I shall have you. In exchange for that, your son and daughter will be unmolested and given as much freedom as permitted in my realm."
With tears in her eyes, the still lovely wife and mother nodded her assent.
"I need to hear it from your own lips, woman."
"Ye.. yes, sire." she uttered.
"Splendid!" he turned to address the assemblage in the throne room, "According to reports, the son is a woeful fighter, he does however appear strong and healthy, find a place for him in the infantry. Place the daughter in the custody of the chambermaid, and have the mother prepared for my pleasure."
Cynthia knelt there in stunned silence. Surely, she was dreaming! She would awake any moment, she had to wake up! Still, the tableau before her remained stubbornly unaltered. The sharp point of a blade pressing against the small of her back ended her reverie.
She watched as eighteen-year-old Doug was escorted in one direction at knifepoint by several soldiers. Twenty-year-old Lisa was led off in the opposite direction by a harsh-looking older woman. She gazed up at Kiron. He smiled at her lustily. The possessor of the blade at Cynthia's back coughed politely. Cynthia raised her hands above her head as she returned to a standing position. Two soldiers, most likely officers, led her off in yet a third direction. "Is this really happening?" she asked herself for perhaps the ten-thousandth time. She was Alice through the looking glass and she had met the red queen! After a long walk down hallways and staircases, she was turned over to a group of sour-looking women about her own age. The Chief Matron, denoted by her maturity and starched uniform, looked at her dismissively,
"Some Heriot trick, I venture. But youth does not give insight. What is your name woman?"
"Cynthia, Cynthia Reynolds."
"Harumph! Strip off and be quick about it!"
"What?"
"Are you deaf? You certainly cannot be bathed while dressed. Those fashions! Ugh! Designed to appeal to the king's eye. You'll probably smother him in his sleep or slit his throat while he is dreaming. It would serve the little tyrant right! Now, I won't ask again. Get naked!"
Cynthia stood in a daze. The matron slapped her. Hard!
"Stop wasting everyone's time or I have two of royal guards hold you down and cut those rags off!"
Resignedly, Cynthia bent and untied her hiking boots. She removed each in turn then withdrew her socks. She stood her half-unbuttoned cotton blouse came off next. She tugged the red tee-shirt up and off. For a long moment, she held it against her body before revealing her opalescent brassiere.
"What in the world?" injected the Matron.
With fumbling fingers, Cynthia unclasped it and allowed it to fall to the floor. Rolling her eyes heavenward she unclasped the belt buckle undid the button at the hem and stepped out of the shorts. She was clad now in just her knickers, white and lacy. She tugged these down, revealing that she came by her blond locks naturally.
"The king does have a good eye; I will give him that. Turn."
Cynthia performed a slow pirouette, revealing a trim lean body that bore only faint signs that its owner had given birth. There was just the slightest sag at the belly. The breasts were still full and firm, gravity had not yet had its way with this woman. The matron considered her prettier than any of the women who worked for her. It made her suspect this woman even more.
"Follow me!" she barked.
Cynthia found herself in a steam-filled room with a gigantic tub. Uniformed women washed her head to toe, provided a first-class pedicure and manicure, colored her nails an electric blue, and expertly washed, set, and styled her hair. The women were experts at makeup as well. To her considerable displeasure, they confiscated her earrings and made her hand over her wedding and engagement rings. She wondered if she would ever see either them or Ted again. Her only moment of levity during her preparations was contemplating her current predicament to her husband, "A funny thing happened when I was on vacation with the kids, honey..."
The idyll of beautification ended with Cynthia in a practically painted on electric blue top too large to be a bandeau but too small to be a bustier, electric blue skimpy knickers, thigh-high black boots with punishing heels that were at least a half-size too small, and a hairband with black feathers sprouting from it. As she gazed at her reflection, Cynthia thought that a hooker stared back at her, this was immediately followed by the thought that Ted would, without question, adore her in it. No doubt, the terror Kiron would as well. She began psyching herself up for the sex that was certain to be in her immediate future. She knew that she had to appear enthusiastic, both for her own sake and that of her children. Butterflies the size of Mothra, fluttered in her tummy.
