The King In Flesh
by Nikki Isaak
The king dreamt.
He was trapped in a vibrating maze of hot, malleable flesh. Coral-tinted nether lips, interspersed on the walls, floors and ceilings, flicked lascivious Kali tongues, licking and nipping at his bare feet.
Clear viscosity oozed from the fanged orifices. The king, sweaty and nude, sniffed at the leaking fluid, frowned.
His wife's musky perfume was unmistakable. The ungrateful wench was trying to kill him.
He screamed "Wake up, wake up!" until he grew dizzy. He stopped doing that, tried to grab the slathering tongues.
He would turn the tables on the wench. He would survive this.
But the elongated tongues eluded his grasp. Their attendant fangs scored his sticky hands and arms.
Try as he might, he couldn't wake up. The virulent nostrum she'd slipped into his evening wine was too powerful.
Lukas, her soothsayer, was the source of it, no doubt. Remembering her liaisons with Lukas, he regretted not killing them.
If he got out of this, he would correct that oversight.
Behind him, the air was slightly cooler; the air before him was hot, getting hotter. The source of her treachery lay in the direction of the heat, he was sure.
He couldn't say why or how he knew this. It just felt right. In a situation like this, it was best to follow the dream's logic, no matter how opaque.
Avoiding the snapping labra, he maintained his swift course. After fifty yards or so, he slowed a bit, his corpulence and age exerting their influence.
The air was stifling. It was getting harder to breathe.
Never mind that, he thought, just reach the source. If you reach the source, you'll wake up.
A new challenge awaited him as he entered the next corridor. The gouging mouths were no longer static: they circulated freely over the ceilings, walls and floor. It was no longer possible to dodge them.
The pain in his chest, initially faint, was spreading.
Taking a small breath, he dashed into the mouth-frenzied corridor.
The end lay here, one way or another.
He stopped when he saw the hive of dancing eyes. Hazel, like his wife's, they covered the end of the corridor. When the eyes split from the center of the hive, a darkness was espied; this darkness, the source of the heat, expanded as the hive flowed towards him.
The hive wasn't the only thing that noticed the king's pause.
Following the hive's lead, the labra moved in for the kill.
* * *
The queen moaned as she rode the king's jacinth cock. The king, deep in his nightmare, twitched and clawed. Occasionally, he groaned.
"Looks like my nostrum is working," leered Lukas, his raven beard grazing the back of her slender neck. One hand cupped her bouncing breasts, flicked her nipples. The other teased her hardened clit.
A guttural sound escaped the queen's flushed mouth, her frantic strokings of the soothsayer's cock increasing with the volume of her pleasure.
"With the king dead - pity about his weak heart, no? - our unborn son will rule. . . with his mother's help, of course."
The queen ignored Lukas, rapt in her mounting pleasure. If the king had lasted this long before, she might not have had to kill him. That, and been faithful.
Lukas came on her, his geysering seed sticky on her dusky backside. About the same time, the king loosed a terrible scream, then went still.
The servants would ignore this, of course. The king made similar sounds with his many concubines.
"He's dead," Lukas murmured in her ear.
The queen smiled, thinking, soon you will be, too, Lukas.
Copyright ©2001 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved.
about the author: Anything you need to know about the writer can be had by reading the author's poems and stories.
