Tarotica Ch. 04

The Emperor

Masculine power and control. Dealing with authority. Domination of the world. Ambition. A man of importance. A paternal man. A man of influence.
Tarot: Plain and Simple, by Anthony Louis

This card represents worldly power. Accomplishment. Wealth. Authority. Indomitable spirit. War-making tendencies. Strong masculine development. A capable person who is knowledgeable and competent.
Tarot Classic by Stuart R. Kaplan

I have always been a woman in charge. Throughout my disastrous first marriage, I handled the bills, the paperwork, the rent – even the library cards. With alacrity, Mark would hand me the requisite paperwork, then whistle, unconcerned, and go on his way. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but it’s not much of one. I didn’t mind, really – I’d been alone for so long in the small empire of my mind, it never occurred to me that someone should join me there. I paid the bills, I did the paperwork, I kept track of the library cards and the books – I wasn’t even aware of the growing resentment. Well, not until right before the divorce, anyway. But that’s another story.

I have been a woman in charge – I did very well in college, got a good job, bought a nice house – all in my own name, on my own terms. I like to think that I am strong, though my divorce did its best to break me. It did not succeed. However, I have to admit – there are times – when I’m alone in my house, after a hard day’s work, or when I’m alone on the weekend, no dates and only cats for company – that I allow myself the luxury of a certain fantasy. This fantasy does not fall within the bounds of what one might consider “politically correct,” nor does it seem appropriate for a woman like myself, having been through so much and survived. And yet, it’s there – and yet, it never fails to excite me –

****
I am on a ship, somewhere on a sea, in a land, far away. The sea does not exist, the land does not exist – it’s important, somehow, that the world exists only for me, only in my imagination. I am in the galley of the ship – I am a slave. Not a slave of labor, but a slave of pleasure. I am with others – we have been captured by warriors from another exotic land – and we are there, blindfolded, chained together. Occasionally, we are fed by the ship’s crew. They delight in tormenting us, providing a drink of water and then pulling the cup away – feeding us a few morsels of meat, and then walking away, laughing. In this way, they are cruel, but they do not beat us. At night, we sleep leaning against each other, swaying sometimes with the waving tipple of the ship. We do not talk – we cannot. As soon as there is a whisper, a nod, a bit of a conversation, there is a sailor there, babbling in some foreign language and providing a well-placed slap. We do not know where we are, nor where we’re going.

At last, however, we arrive at our destination. The ship docks with a sickening thump, and we are knocked, like dominos, off our bench. The crew rights us, soothing our hair and re-seating us. We are still blindfolded, but I can smell the smells of land – food cooking and aromatic spices – and can hear shouts – chattering – in the same foreign language the sailors use. There is the creak of a wooden door and ancient hinges – I can tell, against my blindfold, that light is leaking into the galley. I want it, lean towards it, and am pulled sharply back by the woman next to me. The sailors come to us and, grabbing our arms, raise us to our feet. We stumble a bit – we’ve been on the ship so long – but the sailors quickly right us, and we are on our way, shuffling over the wooden floor of the ship. I am barefoot, and dressed only in a casual, short leather shift. I can feel the boards beneath my feet, can feel the slight movement of the docked ship. We leave the ship and are soon on the dock. The voices are louder, the smells stronger. I breathe them in -- both the voices and the smells – it’s been so long since I’ve smelled anything but sailor and galley sweat – heard anything but the slap of the ocean waves and the occasional moans of the other girls.

We are led into some sort of conveyance. We are still blindfolded, so I cannot see what it is, but from the uneven shift of weight, the groans as we are lifted into the air, I imagine that we are in a chariot, carried by men. I can hear chattering – still the foreign language. I want so much to hear my own. I lean back, against the canvas wall of the carriage, and I can feel a breeze on my cheek, can smell again the cooked meat, the spices, the oils – the chatter, I thought, must be in a marketplace – haggling over prices, gossiping over local news. For a minute, I imagine myself back home, eating with my family, talking with family friends, gossiping over neighborhood campfires. Suddenly, the carriage jolts, then stops. The chattering is louder. There is a shout from somewhere, and we are lowered. I feel the soft “chuff” of the carriage landing on earth. Several men – I know they are men, from their voices and from the feel of their hands – guide us, walking us carefully, and we are led out of the carriage. Awkwardly, we stumble against each other but follow their lead. Underneath my bare feet, there is grass, a brief path of gravel, and then smooth brick. The brick is cool and somehow soothing. We are led up the brick path and we are soon stumbling, still chained, up steps. The guards try to guide us, but, since they do not speak our language, it’s rather tough going. A sound of a door opening – a large door, from the sound of it – and we are guided into a cool hallway of some sort. A collective sigh from all of us – the halls are scented, the floor carpeted – unexpected luxuries, for us so long at sea.

We are led down a hallway, up a stairwell, and down another. Finally, when we stop, we are unchained, our blindfolds lifted. We sigh – a sigh of relief and curiosity – and look at our captors, at each other. There is no doubt our captors chose the best of our land – around me are svelte blondes, curvy brunettes – beauty in all its resplendent feminine form. For a second, I feel ashamed – my feet are calloused, my hair always tangled. Then, we all notice where we are –

The room is capacious – there is a large swimming pool, scented, in the middle of it. Surrounding it are hot baths, attended by servants, both male and female. Fragrant vines climb the walls with colorful flowers, their vines reaching for the high windows. From the slant of the light and the placement of the windows, I can tell that the room is underground. The sailors who have brought us seem dirty and small here, but still they command us, and we are given to understand that we are to bathe in the hot waters, then the fragrant swimming pool. We are separated in groups of three. As I walk with the others, I gather my courage, and say, “Do you think we can speak now?” The bathing attendant pays no attention – no slaps, no reprimand. The buxom brunette beside me whispers, still frightened, “I think maybe we can.” The bathing attendant – a young boy, really, no more than 18, turns to us and smiles. “Of course you can speak. Here, at least.” We are startled – we’ve not heard our language for so long. “Here,” the boy continues, “You at least have some freedom – you can speak to each other, play with each other – laugh, talk. Of course, you cannot leave – but perhaps you will not want to.” Once again, I gather courage: “But – what is our purpose here?” The boy laughs, and his dimples curve, “Oh – haven’t you guessed? You’re for the emperor.”

The attendants bathe us and, for the moment, we luxuriate in the warmth. The long days of sweat and sailor and smell are washed off. We are shaved – everything – arms, legs, pubis, armpits. We are given no clothes and, instead, are encouraged to enjoy the cool pool, naked, with our colleagues. I notice, though, that, three by three, the attendants are taking the other women somewhere – they are first dressing them in draped robes and jewels – from the corner of my eye, I see a woman’s nipples pinched with ruby clamps. She gives a small yelp, but the attendant merely rubs a finger against her lips, then soothes the reddened tits. I look around, but the other women are engaged in discussion, talking about missed families, talking just to talk. It does not take long. The attendants come to the edge of the pool. They signal to me, my brunette companion, and another, rather shrill-voiced blonde. Of course, we dare not refuse them. We climb out of the pool, hairless bodies glistening in the light from the windows and the sconces burning on the cavernous walls. We are taken to a corner, slightly hidden from the rest of the women, next to a deep closet. From it, the attendants bring white robes, strings of jewels – and then, they smile at us. One drapes the brunette first, than braids her hair with strings of rubies. She is smiling, nodding and talking with the attendants, relaxed. Suddenly, another attendant comes from behind and clips her nipples with the same kind of clamps I saw earlier. The brunette gasps, and the attendant covers her mouth. I watch her eyes widen. They are stringing the jeweled clamps from her nipples – a chain connects them around her neck, to her pierced ears. Whatever she does I think to myself, She will have to pull those clamps – and feel them tug at her nipples. The attendants lead her away – as the clamps pull, she whimpers softly.

It is my turn, and I follow the attendants with apprehension, dread, anxiety, and more than a little excitement. I am given no robes. I hear two attendants speaking to each other in their foreign, clicking language. I am frustrated. What are they saying? One smiles at me, runs a hand over my hair. “A wild child, eh? That’s what the emperor likes.” No robes, but a tiara of gold, delicately touched with flowers of sapphires and amber. Chains of silver, tinged with rich amethyst, are placed around my neck. More of the same, in miniature, are ringed around my wrist. Bejeweled nipple clamps – this time tinged with onyx – are attached to my tits, then wrapped around my wrist – and – horror of horrors – clipped to my clit. I gasp as the attendant smiles, smoothes my hair, and says, “You have the clit and the cunt for this, don’t you? So distended, so large – don’t worry – the emperor will like that, I think.” I cannot move without feeling the pull of the clamps on my clit, on my nipples. I try not to gasp aloud as the attendants guide me up the steps. I feel the bare stone against my bare feet.

The three of us are led up a steep stairwell, into a hallway – it is bright, here, as the sun shines fully in the windows. We three squint – we have not seen full sun for so long. We are walking on soft red carpet, and the luxuriance of it feels strange against my callused feet. We enter a spacious room, and I catch a glimpse of a long, stone table, covered with cups and various dishes. There is a dais, too, but as soon as I catch its sight, our attendants force us down, on to our knees. For the rest of the journey, we will crawl. With each movement, I gasp – the clamps on my clit and my tits pull with every crawling step. At last, we are made to stop, but the attendants hold our heads down, bowed, and we see only the lush red carpet. The attendant speaks in his language, sounding proud, happy. I hear an answering voice – brusque, but deep, a somehow soothing baritone. There is the sound of shuffling, slippered feet – the attendants are gone.

“You are beauties,” the voice continues, this time in our own language, “I think perhaps you’re the best lot I’ve seen yet.” He is on the carpet, walking – I can hear the soft thunk of his boots on the red velvet. “A blonde,” I hear him say, “A brunette – and” he has stopped in front of me. I can see his boots and hear my breathing, my heartbeat. “A red head.” He squats in front of me, his hands on his bent knees. I can see the rich cloth of his trousers, can feel the feather brush of his breath on my hair. I try to make my breathing regular, try to still its ragged, erratic pattern. He reaches out a hand, then, and puts a finger under my chin. He raises my face, and my eyes meet his – he is handsome, ruggedly so, with a neatly trimmed brown beard and long brown hair that curls around his collar. “Do you know, little one, what red hair means in this country?” I shake my head; there are tears in my eyes – what did it mean? Execution? Exile? Eternal imprisonment? “Red hair,” he continues, and gently wipes the tears from my eyes, “is a sign of magic – of good luck. We have no red-haired women here – or men, for that matter. To have a pet – with hair that color – is very good fortune, indeed.” I watch him as he rises and pulls a silken chord, hanging from the ceiling. The attendants return. He gives them only a look, and they lead away my companions, still on their hands and knees. The Emperor – for obviously, that’s who the great man is -- has not spoken to them – only to me. The Emperor returns to me and gently lifts me to my feet. The clamps pull on my tits and my clit and I gasp a little. The Emperor laughs, then pulls the chains himself. I am almost yelping, not quite screaming, and yet I feel myself getting wet. The Emperor must know this, for he reaches down, between my legs, inside me. “Just as I thought,” he laughs, “It’s always the red-haired ones. Too bad they’re so rare. Come, pet, sit beside me here, on the floor.” He has taken one of the chains, one leading from my tits down around my stomach, down further, and he leads me as if I were indeed a pet. Once on the dais, he presses down, gently, on the top of my head, until I am kneeling. “Good, pet.” He says, and strokes my hair, “Now – let’s see – just how you look – your hands behind your back please – and spread your legs.” I am embarrassed, but I follow his orders. He reaches forward, touches my pussy, which is also covered with red fur and is now, I see with humiliation, glistening in the sunlight streaming from the windows. The Emperor bends, reaches down to touch the wetness, plunges his fingers into my cunt. His fingers reach, then, to my clit and rub it in a rhythmic fashion that leaves me, once more, gasping for breath. He withdraws, stands up, and I want him back, there between my legs. I let out an involuntary whimper.

The Emperor laughs and takes my chain one more time – this time, he leads me down, down in front of his chair, so I am lying on my belly in front of him. Again, the clamps pull, and I gasp a little. “You will get used to those clamps,” the Emperor says, from above me, “And you may even get to enjoy them.” I doubt that, but I dare not say a word. The Emperor, momentarily, rests his boots on my ass. “What a wonderful ass – so white – so young.” He reaches over, then, to smack me, lightly. I am surprised, and try to wiggle away from his hands. The Emperor laughs.

“Oh no, little one. There is no escape here. I’m afraid that you’re the spoils of war – that you’re mine. But fear not – I’m not cruel, nor beastly, and I don’t kill, maim, or expose those captives for whom I really don’t care. No – all my captives are fed, watered – taken care of. But there are some – well – there are some – of whom I become especially fond. I have only one other redhead. You will see – I teach them our language, how to read, how to sing, how to dance – they are schooled in arts that will make them more gracious and, of course, more pleasing to me. You are lucky, little one. You will see.” With his feet, the Emperor rolls me over, onto my back. He bends down from his seat and fingers my clit again, rubbing back and forth, up and down – no one has touched me there, and I feel as if I cannot breathe. “Please,” I manage to gasp, and the Emperor laughs once again. “We will break you in a little, I think,” he whispers, and his fingers, his hands move from my clit, into my cunt, back to my clit and then, more furiously, back and forth between. I feel fire between my thighs and covering my face, my neck, my throat. I have never felt this, and I don’t know how to respond, I don’t understand the tremendous internal wave that threatens to engulf me, I’m sure it will drown me. I am breathing raggedly, sharply, regardless of my attempts to be calm and still, and my cunt is pulsating around the Emperor’s large hand. He laughs, touches my face. I can smell myself on his hand – it is not a bad smell, really rather pleasant. “I did take you for a natural,” he says, “And I was not wrong.” He sits back, again, and pulls the silken rope once more. His attendants appear, shuffling their slippered feet. In the Emperor’s presence, they bow.

“You can take her to bathe, now, and put her to bed.” The closest attendant smiles. “To the bowery, Sir?” The Emperor smiles back, perhaps slightly annoyed, “Yes, Ostara, you guessed correctly – as usual, you know my taste. To the bowery.”

I am taken, then, not back to the other women, but to a separate bathing facility. My jewels are removed – for some reason, I almost miss the constant pinch on my nipples and clit. The water is scented, the towels large and soft. The attendant hands me a robe, this time, and takes me to a long hallway. There are large golden cages hanging above me, and I hear singing – a light, trilling, wonderful sound – coming from them. I look up in wonder. The attendant only smiles, and finally, we stop. A button is pushed, somewhere, and one of the golden cages – furnished with silk bedding and a bowl of rose water – lowers from the ceiling. “Here,” he smiles, “is your bed. You will be able to look out the window, at the empire – there are books there, from your country, for you to read, and rose water for washing. You will, I know, be comfortable.” Before I can protest, I am led into the cage, the door locked behind me. The button is pushed, the cage raised. I feel it slightly swaying in the breeze, coming from the open casements above the large windows behind which we roost. I look over, towards the cage next to me. A beautiful brunette occupies this next-door spot, and she smiles at me. It is she, too, who has been singing as she combs out her hair, a dark velvet tapestry that must reach her toes. “Welcome,” she smiles at me, “Don’t worry,” she says, in a voice confident and self-assured, “You’re one of the lucky ones.”

I think of the Emperor, of his hands on my cunt, of the tight clamps on my clit and nipples, and I think, perhaps, she’s right.

***

So there it is -- my very incorrect fantasy. And you know what? When the Emperor reaches for my pussy, and I touch myself, feel my own wetness, my own excitement – and then think of the golden bars of the cages, the silk of the bed clothes -- well, I must admit – I always cum.