The Tower

I was once the Prince of this magnificent city state. But now, my whole kingdom is encompassed in this small grey stone tower. I have an apartment consisting of a single bedchamber with a garderobe and bathroom to the sides. I have one window, mockingly overlooking a beautiful ornamental garden. Furniture? One bed, a table and chair. And a small bookcase, with titles so kindly selected from my library -- theology, botany, art -- none of my books on politics or strategy. Those might prove too useful to me; just as I have no weapons, I am permitted no books of power or even pen and paper.

I have to acknowledge my brother's cunning and ruthlessness. Unseen even by my most able spies, he placed himself ready, then struck when I was out of my domain. Overnight he seized the throne of the city, set his own counsellors and advisor in position and imprisoned or murdered all those loyal to me. He even had his pet creature, Cardinal Fanelli, to give him an air of spiritual respectability. As I rode into the city, I was ambushed. My sons died defending me, as did my bravest soldiers. Between us we killed many of the mercenaries, but it was to no avail. I was dragged from my horse, bundled into a wagon, and taken here. They threw me into my cell and locked the door. I have not been outside since.

This then, is the whole of my realm. And this only until my brother Rodolfo decides the time has come to end my threat to his usurped crown. I know it is only a matter of time. Either his men will put me to the torture until I crack and sign whatever confession he has written for me simply to stop the unendurable agony, followed by the executioner's axe -- or even the hangman's noose like a commoner -- or my end will simply be a knife in the dark. The jailer here is a grim, scarred giant -- a hard man I would be hard pressed to beat even armed. He is my jailer -- but at a word he would become my assassin.

This is my kingdom, my world -- a bare stone room, where I sleep and read and wait for death. So little time ago, I was one of the most powerful men in Europe, ruler over a prosperous city, my every word a command, my every pleasure indulged. I would attend opera and theatre, hold extravagant dances. I would hunt and ride through my domain. I would dally with the most desirable women in all of Italy. Ah, the women!

It is right, fitting even, that a prince should have his pick of the women of his realm. And believe me, I did. Now though, I have only my memories. Each day, I remember one of my favourite women, my most favoured concubines. I do not sink to performing the sin of Onan, to defiling myself, of course. Such would be unseemly for a Christian prince, even one cast down and dethroned. But still, I reminisce about them, how each of them came to be my lover, and allow myself to remember the pleasures of their delicious bodies.

Today, I remember Giulietta, the Gypsy Queen. I had been riding out with my hawk in the mountains when I found myself in a narrow rocky pass, my soldiers still some way behind me. There, I encountered a Romany encampment. Wagons, tents, a crowd of colourfully dressed people.

"Ho! Nobleman! You are far from your fine city, now! Here, I am the king!"

So spoke a big, strapping, black-bearded fellow dressed in bright silks and with a fearsome knife at his belt. I could see from the corner of my eye the men hiding in the rocks with bows, crossbows and slings. I was surrounded.

"Far from the city I may be, but these are still my lands. You are all subject to my law!" I admonished him, trying to cow him with my confident voice.

"We accept no law but our own! Here, I rule!" the leader cried, and his people cheered.

"I have no desire to interfere in your lives, fellow, so I shall return to my city and bid you a good day!" I replied and started to turn my horse.

"Stop!" said the chieftain, "if you leave here, it will be stripped off your wealth and finery, and walking bare-arsed home!"

"Am I then subject to your law here, O king?" I asked, mockingly.

"Indeed!"

"Then," I replied, "By the law of your people I challenge you!"

It was a risk, but at least this would be a fair fight. Or so I thought. I dismounted, unbuckled my sword belt, took off my doublet. As an old Romany wise man was pronouncing the rules of the contest, a knife fight to the death, and before I had a chance to arm myself, my opponent rushed me from behind! I dodged his murderous attack, and we began to duel with me bare handed against his evil-looking knife. He was a dangerous fighter -- quick for all his bulk and skilled in dirty fighting. But I had trained with weapon masters and wrestling champions since childhood, and survived more than one battle. HE came in close, and I combined a sacrifice throw with a kick, rolling onto my back and launching him through the air. I sprang up, reached his dropped knife before he could. I was about to offer him mercy and end the contest, but he snatched a crossbow from a nearby follower and brought it up to shoot. I threw my weapon, his own knife piercing his black heart and killing him instantly.

There was stunned silence. I seized the chance to speak:

"Nothing here has changed. I told you I am your prince and so I remain. All I ask of you is that you rob no travellers on the road and your people will be free to travel and live free and unmolested in my lands!"

Seeing that they accepted my words, I dressed, mounted my horse and prepared to leave. As I did though, a woman's voice spoke out:

"And what of me? You claim to know our laws, but do you know the fate that will befall a king's wife when he dies? She must give herself to his conqueror, become his woman. Otherwise she is without honour, without respect! My prince, would you leave me to that?"

The woman who had spoken was stunning. Coarse and sensual features rather than the refined beauty of court women, but just as sexually exciting -- perhaps more -- for all that. Dark olive skin, a mane of curly black hair, dark smouldering eyes. A full, sensuous mouth. She wore a red taffeta skirt and a tight sleeveless white bodice laced up the front which displayed the deep cleavage of a magnificent pair of breasts. She looked at me, both imploring and challenging, supplicant yet proud.

I felt the thrill of desire following the thrill of combat. It was probably true that if I left her behind she would be treated badly by her people. I reached down, swung her up on the horse behind me.

"Come with me, my proud beauty! I shall have you before your husband's blood is cold!", I cried.

The assembled people cheered me, their lord, for observing their customs.

We galloped off. Some miles away, I reined in my horse at a mountain meadow near where a waterfall fed a pool and a clear stream. As we rode, I had felt those luscious breasts pressing against me, those strong thighs about my waist.

We jumped down from the horse. I could not wait to have this spirited beauty, and ripped her skirt off to reveal powerful thighs and shapely calves, and a plump, full, firm arse which she presented to me eagerly, wriggling it as she bent over and laid herself against a rock.

I unlaced my breeches and at once thrust my rigid cock into her, fucking her from behind as she cried out in pleasure. I came quickly, excited by her earthy full body, her tight wet cunt, her animalistic grunts of desire.

I withdrew from her, stood up. She turned to face me, smiling in pleasure at her own power to arouse me. Naked from the waist down, her wet mound and dark pubic hair against her olive skin contrasted with the pristine white of that tight bodice. Her hands moved to the bow holding it closed, and teasingly she pulled it open, then slowly, tantalisingly, undid the crossed laces until she was able to rip it off and expose her breasts in all their naked glory.

And they were indeed glorious. Huge, heavy, bigger than those of any woman I had bedded. Full and rounded, firm and inviting, the nipples big and dark. She teased at those nipples with her own fingers, then cupped the glorious mountainous breasts in her hands, letting me see how big and heavy they were. My cock rose again, hardening in salute of her hourglass figure, her fuckable body.

"My prince, my gypsy king, do you wish to have me again? Shall Giulietta show you how she belongs to you now?", she teased.

"Come here, wench!", I ordered. She ran into my arms, kissing me hard, open-mouthed, lasciviously, as I ran my hands over that incredible body. She pushed me down onto my back, stripped my clothes from me, with an aggressive sexuality I had never known from more sophisticated women. She climbed on top of me on all fours, those huge melons invitingly hanging over me.

"Come to Giulietta," she purred, "Come to Mama!" And then she proceeded to engulf me in those wonderful breasts, smothering me and mothering me as my fingers and mouth explored her flesh hungrily. She was soon groaning in pleasure herself at my caresses. Then she slithered down my body, until my cock was nestling between her breasts. I was slick from her juices, and she was slick from my saliva. The friction as she squeezed her breasts together and used them to fuck my proud cock was exquisite. I groaned and writhed beneath her as she worked me, until she ordered; "come for Mama!" and I found myself spurting uncontrollably into the valley between her amazing breasts. She climbed off me, looking me in the eye as she smeared and massaged my spunk over the smooth olive flesh of her breasts.

"And will my prince take me to his city, and make me his concubine?" she asked, knowing that I would. In answer, I grasped her wrists, dragged her under the waterfall and fucked her again, as the icy water ran over our bodies in the bright sunlight. She bit at my shoulders, clawed at my back, wrapped those strong thighs around me and milked me once more of my spunk as I fucked her to a screaming orgasm.

I did take her back with me and set her up as one of my mistresses. Her cheap finery was replaced with gold and silks and lace. Sometimes she would wear black silk stockings and lace negligees to bed, sometimes only her bangles and gold chains, but each time she would say those words as she offered me the sinful pleasures of her breasts; "Come to Mama!"

I smile in my erotic reverie. My cock is hard. I am so tempted to stroke it, but this would be a sin, a loss of self-control. I am starting to soften when I hear footsteps, the door is unlocked and thrown open, and the terrifying jailer announces, "Visitor!"

I have had no visitors since my capture. I wait, wondering if perhaps Rodolfo has come to gloat. But to my surprise I hear a lighter step, a woman's step, and through the door walks my daughter Angelica.

I gasp in surprise and joy. Angelica, my only surviving child, my pride and joy. Clever, learned, witty, and famed as the greatest beauty of the age. And beauty she truly is.

The morning light through the tower's only window strikes her just as she enters, bathing her in its golden glow. Her golden hair becomes a halo, framing her perfect features. Her eyes are a beautiful cornflower blue, her complexion ivory, her lips a red Cupid's bow. She is tall for a woman and moves with an easy grace. She is wearing a simple dress of pink silk which clings tightly to her long limbs and emphasises her slender waist and the curves of her hips and breasts. And to my amazement, I realise I am thinking of my own daughter in this way for the first time in my life. I was aware of her beauty, of course, with a father's pride, but I had never seen her as a potential lover might until now. Something about being alone for so long, perhaps coming out of my erotic daydream, has me looking for the first time at Angelica and realising what a stunningly desirable woman she truly is. The man to marry her will be fortunate indeed, for she is the epitome of all that our age holds beautiful in a young woman.

"Father!" she cries, tears brimming in her seep blue eyes even as she smiles, and I am the same, moved to see her again.

"My darling daughter," I say, "How have they been treating you?"

"Well enough, Father. I am kept in our summer house and have been treated with kindness enough by the women who are my jailers. But tell me, are you treated well by my uncle's men as he assures me?"

"You see how I am treated. It is well enough. I have my books, and I am fed well."

I need not say more. Need not spell out that I am confined in this cold tower, at my enemy's mercy.

"I have prayed for you, Father, and for the souls of poor Paolo and Francisco."

"Your brothers died bravely, like the fine young men they were."

"And now we have only each other. My beloved Father, I miss you so!"

And she throws herself sobbing into my arms. I hold her, feeling the heat of her firm young body through the thin silk of her dress, smelling her delicate perfume. This is the first human contact in weeks, the first time in longer that I have held a woman in my arms.

A traitor to my best intentions, my detumescent cock starts to thicken and harden again at the sight and sensation of this young goddess, my daughter Angelica, clasping me tightly to her.

I break away. I tell her gruffly, "You should go."

She nods, thinking that I am sending her away rather than let her see my tears. I feel bad that the real reason is the shameful desire she has aroused in me.

"My uncle tells me that I may visit you every day, as long..." she does not finish her sentence. I look at her expectantly. She composes herself, "He said for as long as you still live, Father."

We both understand. My life will soon be forfeit.

"Shall I see you again tomorrow?" she implores. I nod, silently, and she knocks on the door to my cell, summoning the jailer who wordlessly escorts her out, locking me in alone once more.

My loneliness falls even more heavily on me after the brief visit. Perhaps this is why Rodolfo permitted it, an additional small, subtle cruelty.

The day passes, I enjoy a simple supper and a glass of wine, then retire to my bed. My passions inflamed by the earlier daydream of Giulietta -- "come to Mama!" -- I for the first time in many years reach out and caress my own cock as it hardens into life. I stroke myself slowly as I savour the memory of our last coupling. She was in bangles and golden chains, her lush body oiled and perfumed. Those huge orbs bare, she invited me to use them -- "come to Mama!" -- and I did, fucking her breasts until I came all over her flesh. As I reach my orgasm, unbidden and for a sinful instant Giulietta's coarse, sensuous features disappear and in my mind's eye I see Angelica! Angelica, her innocent eyes wide, her imagined body white and bared, with my spunk splashing and drenching her perfect breasts!

I am wracked with guilt and horror in the moments after my climax, but then I find myself overcome by weariness and I fall quickly asleep.

Next morning, I wake more rested and calm than I have felt in many days. Seeing Angelica once more has clearly helped me. I dismiss my aberrant thoughts of the night before. Thinking of another of my lovers will doubtless clear my head of these inappropriate thoughts toward my daughter. Perhaps -- yes, Catarina, "the Cat".

My chamberlain had been pressing me to do something about a troupe of scandalous entertainers in the shadow of the city walls.

"Lewd dancers, My Lord. Shameless wantons, brazen hussies! They should be put naked into the stocks and whipped through the streets!"

I had been considering this -- order must be maintained, after all -- when the entertainers sent one of their own to entreat with me.

You may think it surprising that I chose to see a common dancing girl, but in truth I was curious. I certainly was surprised to encounter not some gaudy jezebel, but a young lady as properly dressed as any one might see at church on a Sunday. The only hint of what she was lay perhaps in the short cut of her sandy hair (the better for managing it in a dance) and the willowy grace of her slim, petite, compact body. She introduced herself to me as Catarina. I detected a slight accent.

"English?" I asked, switching to that language (in which, as an educated man, I am quite fluent).

"Yes. My real name is Catherine -- my friends call me 'Cat' -- it means 'la gatta' in your language."

"A fitting name for one so elegant. Though while I do not doubt your talent as a dancer, I hear reports of lewd and lascivious displays inflaming the passions of my citizenry. I have respected burghers begging me to have you thrown out of the city's precincts. What do you have to say in your defence, Signorina La Gatta? Cat?"

"I thought that perhaps if I were to give you a private performance, I might persuade you that our little frolics do no harm to any. I might perhaps show you, O Prince, what delight a dance can bring..."

"An unusual proposal -- but what harm can it do? Very well -- dance for me, Cat!"

I summoned musicians. Catarina briefed them on what to play, then, to my surprise, ordered them to turn their backs. They did so, and she began.

Her performance began modestly, with a court dance. But then she began to quicken her steps. The long dress she wore was a little confining for her moves -- and at a stroke she undid a concealed lace and stepped out of it, revealing her lithe body in a clinging silk camisole top and flowing dancing skirt exposing her shapely calves and ankles, all in deep flame colours. She danced more vigorously, acrobatically, flinging herself around the chamber breathlessly. The skirt rose about her hips revealing taut, muscular thighs. The slinky top clung to her sweat-drenched body. She moved with uninhibited freedom, her face a mask of lustful yearning. She approached me in my chair, clinking and crawling up over me, hooking her superb legs over my shoulders and sinning round so that she sank down onto my lap from above. She looked me in the eyes.

"Shall I stop, Milord?" she asked.

"No! Don't stop! Don't stop!" I commanded. She whispered in my ear; "This is a dance for two. But the woman does all the work. The man must remain quite still!"

She reached for my hands, placed them firmly on the arms of my chair. Then she began. She writhed and rolled against me, her hungry, eager pussy grinding against my straining erect cock inside my breeches. She teased me with her long fingers, her lips, her teeth nibbling at my ear, as she worked me hard and expertly until I was unable to endure the torment any longer and came helplessly.

I reached up and tore the flimsy silk dancing dress open, ripping it from her athletic body. She gasped in excitement. Her breasts were small, but the nipples were prominent, pink and erect. I began to tease them with my tongue then nip and nibble at them with my teeth as my hands roamed over the muscles of her back. I insinuated one hand down between her pert buttocks and between her legs, beginning to tease her as she had teased me.

"Oh, God!" She groaned in English, "That's so good. Please, Milord, please -- screw me! Take me to bed and screw my fucking arse off!"

I did. She was a sensational lover. Her stamina was beyond anything I had ever encountered, and that lithe dancer's body was elastic in its flexibility. She coiled those slender strong limbs around me like a serpent. Bit and clawed with her long fingernails like a she-cat when she orgasmed. Again and again she drained the roiling spunk from me in a dizzying range of exotic sexual positions.

The dancing troupe was no longer permitted to perform under the walls. They were not sent from the town, though. A discreet theatre was found, and they began to hold private performances for the most discerning of gentlemen. All except Cat, who I installed in my palace. I had a volume of erotic lore from Asia in my library, and night by night we performed every unimaginable, contorted act of congress from its pages. Among the tributes sent me by one of my minor nobles was the striped skin of an exotic big cat. I had this made into a special outfit for my own Cat. Thigh-high furred boots with heels, sleeves from wrist to shoulder, all of tiger skin. The ears mounted on a headband; the tail affixed to a girdle for her to wear. My Cat, now truly a cat girl, a tigress, likes to fuck me from on top. "Remember, Milord -- lay still, while your Cat does all the work..." she murmured as she first rode me wearing her cat girl costume, impaling herself on my raging cock, purring in pleasure, her furred, strong limbs about me, and sinking herself down again and again...