The Flat Earth

Sometime in the Distant Past, or Future

"You have nice legs," the handsome assistant said, running his hand again over my black stockings.

"Thank you."

"And pretty feet. His Majesty would approve." He gave my stockinged toes a squeeze, curling them in the process, and added, "I don't think I'm admitting too much when I tell you His Majesty has something of a foot fetish."

"Does he."

The assistant, whose kindness and levity to this point came as a surprise, let escape a little laugh. "But that's between me, you and the four walls."

"Of course, sir."

The assistant ran his inquiring hand up the full long length of my legs to my crotch. I'd debated whether to wear matching black lace panties under my hose or, as contrast, pink ones, and decided at the last minute on the latter. I was wearing a black bra as well and did not want my attire to come off as, well, funereal. The assistant groped me through the two layers, pastel pink and black. "Small balls but His Highness is not going to care about that. He's suspicious of men with big balls." The assistant changed the subject, slightly: "How big do you get when you're hard?"

I swallowed. "About six and a half...inches? Or so? Sir?"

The assistant was rubbing my frightened little penis, as if a bottle containing a genie. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying His Majesty would ever want to suck you. That's your job, on Him. But He might want to jack you off while He's fucking you. When another man has his cock in you, does it make you hard? When you're being fucked?"

"It...depends," I hedged. It could be a trick question. Was the assistant trying to gauge the level of my previous promiscuity? He laughed outloud this time.

"Not a problem. Remind me to send some you some of the secret herbs His Majesty himself takes. You pour boiling water over them, in a pot, as if you were making tea, and then drink the golden-brown liquid about a half hour before sex. His Majesty drinks the solution three, sometimes four times a day. He has three young wives to attend to, after all, not to mention his female concubines and, of course, the person in your position."

"Will you be making the choice, sir?"

"I'll be making the initial choice, yes. His Majesty will make the final choice, of course."

"Do you mind me asking how many are still in the running?"

"To be His Majesty's male concubine? Well, male in a manner of speaking..." The assistant stroked his short beard growth beneath a sly smile. He had a prominent scar on his left cheek. A result of fighting in one of His Majesty's many wars, I suspected. "More than a few," he replied vaguely. "Less than many. Stand up. Let's take a look at your breasts."

I was dreading this. I'd been told that some of the shemales in court had full breasts. I wasn't even, technically speaking, a shemale. My long hair wasn't my own—it was a wig. And while I'd recently begun taking the conversion drugs I still had to shave my face and my body, or use a depilatory. And as far as my "breasts" went...

I stood before the seated assistant and reached behind my back and unhooked my bra, letting it fall. I looked down. My breasts had changed shape and grown but they were still nothing more than little peaks. Hills not mountains, and small hills at that. I lowered my head. I didn't have a chance.

The assistant reached up, however, and felt my little tits with both his hands. Kneaded them to the extent flesh peaks so minimal could be...kneaded like dough. "Looking at our Empress and at His Majesty's other wives and concubines...," the assistant said, "you might get the idea that the Emperor likes women with big breasts." The assistant laughed. "When in fact nothing could be further from the truth. He finds them vulgar. You know who the one true love of his life was—and I shouldn't be telling you this. But his greatest love was a young woman he met over 10 years ago when he was still the Crown Prince. She was slender and trim and had small breasts—much like yours. The lithe body of a young man—just not with the..." The assistant's right hand had fallen from my breast to my hidden genitals, which he squeezed. "He still keeps a photograph of her in his private chamber."

"What happened to her?" I dared ask.

"It has always been rumored, but never proved...that his father had the girl murdered. She was only 19. The Prince was devastated and disappeared from public life for some six weeks afterward. He swore to someday get his revenge. Which of course is part of our glorious history now, though not officially so.

I winced as the assistant gave my pantied genitals another squeeze. It was not the force of the grope that bothered me, but the fact that he was so freely sharing secrets about His Majesty. Had any of the Emperor's upper-level, and ruthless, security guards been listening to our conversation, I would now, officially, find my name on the fateful Enemies List. I wanted to say to the assistant, to shout, Stop! But how could I? He had the power within his command to crush my genitals, both literally and figuratively, in one imperial grasp. Fortunately, for me, his left hand returned to my right breast, such as it was. Then he rose off the couch.

The assistant, who was even taller than I, pushed the hair back from my face and complimented me on my pretty face, my pretty smile. He told me His Majesty would like my mouth, my red-glossed lips. Red: it was his favorite color, the assistant said. He'd seen so much of it in victory on the battlefield. I'd done well, he said, to paint my fingernails and toenails the same crimson color. He said, tentatively, he wanted to kiss me. We kissed. He pushed his tongue in my mouth. I was hesitant to do likewise. But after a few moments I followed suit. We stood there kissing—necking—for several minutes in the small livingroom of my palace apartment. He squeezed my ass as we kissed, with both hands, and I wondered if he did this with all the "gurls" he interviewed for the position. Was it a further test?

The Emperor's assistant pulled his lips away and said, "You're a good kisser. His Majesty will like that."

I was a little surprised. I had not thought His Majesty's relations with his concubine would be particularly...intimate. "His Majesty likes to...?"

"If He's in the mood, yes. The answer is yes and no." Another riddle, I thought. "I have one criticism of your...appearance," he said.

I hung my head. I was far from perfection, I knew, but perfection is still what you strive for. "I'm sorry," I said, without knowing exactly why.

"Your stockings...they cover your panties. He will not like that. When the time comes He will simply want to pull your panties down and fuck you. Or play with you down there. Or both."

"I understand," I said. "I'm sorry. I believe I have those kinds of stockings in my drawer."

"Good. If you're chosen you'll be given a generous monthly allowance for living expenses which will more than cover the costs of any...accessories. You'll be expected to keep on hand, at the ready, any form of dress His Majesty desires to see you in. Of course," the assistant laughed, "such attire is...minimal at best. You'll be provided with the name of a procurer, a...merchant, who can, on a moment's notice, provide you with any type of clothing you desire. Or I should say...the Emperor desires."

"Yessir."

"Let's go in your bedroom. I want to examine you further. Please be advised that these palace apartments are provided to you on an interim basis only, while you are under consideration for the role. If you're not chosen, and the greater possibility is that you won't be, you'll have 48 hours to vacate the premises, leaving behind everything, clothing-wise, you found when you got here."

"Yessir. That was explained to me."

The assistant patted my pantied ass as I led him to the apartment's bedroom. I had been elated at one point—several in fact. But now I felt crushed. I had no chance. I was too old. Most of the other gurls were in their late teens, early twenties. And my tits were too small. And I'd adorned myself in old-fashioned stockings. It was the wrong look. I was fucked. It would be back to the dusty streets, the bordello. Accepting offers from any common man who had a few gold coins to spare in his pocket.

"I must say, though...," the assistant added, his hand still on my ass. "How old are you?"

I told him, honestly. He smiled.

"You're almost exactly the same age His Majesty's one great love would have been had she..." We'd reached the foot of the bed. "Remove your stockings and panties."

"Yessir."

"Then get on the bed on your hands and knees. Do you have oil?"

I pointed, right. "On the table, sir."

As he went to silver vessel he continued: "She...she was not tall like you but she was trim, her body slender like yours. Slender legs like yours, beautiful feet. A high arch. A perfect curvature. His Majesty used to kiss her feet. We've already discussed her breast-size. Yours." He returned to the foot of the bed. The assistant could not have been much more than 30. How did he know so much about His Majesty's long-lost lover? Pictures, I guessed. And stories—perhaps from the Emperor's own mouth. Stories and...rumors?

The assistant inserted his oiled middle finger up my ass. Then a second finger, then a third. "You're obviously not a virgin," he declared.

"No."

"But healthy. The Royal Physicians cleared you."

"Yessir. Flying colors."

The assistant laughed. Yet again. I now wondered if his jovial irrelevance—irreverence even—was possibly the product of...too much wine at dinner earlier? At the Royal Court? "Do you know what that saying derives from?" he asked, three worm-like fingers still deep in my rectum.

"No sir."

"Funny thing...I was, shall we say, interviewing another shemale applicant the other day...? And the gurl says to me...Darling, you know you could stick your whole fist up me with a little...?"

The assistant found this very funny. Very, his three fingers still knuckle-deep in my hole.

"He did?" I asked. "She did?"

"Can you believe it? The moron? Who would think the...His Royal Majesty would want to engage in such a...bizarre and decadent activity? This is why we have mines in the Kingdom. Mine-workers, I should say."

I knelt there thinking: Oh! My muscles tightened around the fingers inside me. I told myself to relax. This was a dangerous game I was playing, I'd volunteered for it, but...Think of all the short-term rewards! A "generous" allowance! A private apartment in the palace! Servants who would wait on my every need! Intimate relations with the most powerful person on God's green earth! How many others could make such a claim in their lifetime? Precious few, I told myself. For as long as it lasted I would be one of the elite.

The assistant withdrew his hand. "You cleaned yourself out before my visit, I see."

"Yessir."

"I would recommend douching yourself twice on nights when the Emperor visits your quarters."

"Of course, sir. Would you like to fuck me now?"

"You'll receive a call, usually from me, about two hours before His Majesty is due to arrive. Plenty of time to prepare yourself."

The assistant's tone—tense—lifted my spirits. "I would always be prepared for His Majesty's visits," I replied. The assistant was wiping his hand on something—my discarded stockings and panties it turned out.

"Good," he said. "No, I'm not going to fuck you. That is strictly His Majesty's prerogative. I could be executed for sleeping with one of the Emperor's concubines. You can get off the bed now. You can stand up."

I found myself once again facing the tall assistant with the scar on the cheek of his handsome face. It was said the Emperor, too, had a scar; that he always led his men into battle. The first to charge. The ultimate Warrior King.

"I can't do anything for you, sir?"

"Don't spoil my visit by prostituting yourself to me. Understand? You've done well for yourself to this point. Why spoil it with...craven behavior? If you think I would ever give in to temptation and step on His Majesty's prerogative...? You're sadly mistaken."

I was nearly in tears at that point. I'd been so...close, it seemed. So close to greatness. And now I'd ruined with one false gesture. I'd forgotten myself. I was not out on the streets; I was in a private chamber of the palace of the all-powerful Emperor. I hung my head. At that moment I wished they would lop it off.

The assistant knocked an open fist against my upper left arm. To my astonishment he was smiling, again. "His Majesty, I believe, would approve of your willingness to please. That goes a long way. But just remember: if you're chosen to be his concubine, you are His alone. Until He or I dismisses you. Otherwise..."

I looked up, my face tear-streaked. I nodded. "I understand, sir. I'm willing to serve."

"I believe you are. I have good news for you..." The assistant was fondling my little shaved balls now. "I'm returning to the Inner Palace. There I will meet with the Emperor. In about an hour, I'm almost certain—I'll call you to confirm—His Majesty will be visiting you."

"The Emperor? Tonight?" I asked in amazement.

"So prepare yourself."

"Tonight? Now?"

"Relax," the assistant said. "You have an hour at least. Or perhaps he won't come at all. His Majesty can be unpredictable at times, I confess. But prepare yourself as if you were certain He was coming."

"I will."

"I know you will. Until next time, darling...," and to my surprise the assistant leaned over and kissed me on the left cheek. Tenderly.

Still naked, I saw him to the door. This last gesture of his, a parting one, had given me an erection. He let go of it, reluctantly it seemed, and in his wake I closed and locked the door. I jumped for joy. The Emperor? Here? In an hour?

I ran to the bathroom. In actuality I had little to do to make myself ready for Him. I'd already prepared my body for the assistant. I needed to wipe myself, touch up my eyeshadow, powder my face, refresh my lipstick—the Emperor liked red, blood-red. I needed to pull on fresh panties and stockings that only came up as far as my thighs. Lace-topped ones. I waited.

I waited for the call that never came.

Shortly after midnight I was awakened from my forlorn slumber by fists banging on my apartment door. I jumped up, fearing the worst. The assistant had said I would have 48 hours to vacate the apartment once I was rejected. It was barely the next day. On my way to the door, vainly, I glanced in the mirror, adjusted my wig.

I unlocked and opened the door. I feared the worst. Two Royal Guards stood in the hallway. They were heavily armed—dressed for battle. The nearer one said, after inspecting me with his cold eyes, "His Majesty will see you now."

The guards parted, taking up position on either side of the door, and making way for the man who, just a few hours ago, I had known as the assistant. He wore the Emperor's variegated robe. It must have cost a fortune. His eyes too were painted, as were His ruby lips. Once inside, and the door closed and locked, He shed His robe. He was naked underneath. Beautiful. The muscular body of a warrior. A scar on his cheek. One among many marring his physical perfection. I was in the naked presence of a mortal God.

He smiled and held out a gift of what appeared to be tea leaves in a small knotted diaphanous sack with a pink bow around its top. It was the same size, nearly, ironically, as His Majesty's own sack—the one enclosing His Royal testicles.

They were at eye-level. Or would have been if, kneeling before him, my head had not been lowered; obeisant. Above his sack was the most beautiful, heavenly, God-like erection I had ever seen. Soon it would be deep in my ass and I welcomed it, and the Royal Seed that followed.

Tears fell to the floor I was so overcome, so overwhelmed. I cupped the gift in my hands. I was kneeling before the Emperor. The Emperor! The most powerful person on this flat earth...

I raised my head, tentatively, finally. I could not resist. I kissed upwards the veinous underside of His tall, vertical cock. I sampled his rosy head. It was sweet, without being so. I said to the former assistant:

"Your Majesty?"