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When I woke in the morning, I experienced a few of those brief moments of absolute harmony before memory, and responsibility, sunk in. I opened my eyes.
My first thought was that the Queen was incredibly hospitable. In the dim, drunken light of the night before, I had not examined or admired my surroundings. Currently, I lay in a four-poster bed with plush drapes enclosing me — though one segment was quirked open, and just beyond it, sitting in an armchair and reading a book, was Pilot.
He was still dressed in the same garb of the previous day: a loincloth and a collar. Despite his near-nudity, he looked perfectly at ease, and certainly more comfortable than many officials of state whom I see in the United Council meeting room wearing stiff and formal robes.
Pilot looked up at me and our eyes met. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning,” I said, blushing slightly at the intensity of his gaze.
“Do you require my services?” he asked, immediately bending to one knee on the ground at my bedside. He looked up at me. From my elevated position, seeing his expectant expression only reminded me of the positions he had assumed the night before, crouched below me, drinking deeply from me as I relieved myself. I blushed harder.
“Um,” I stammered.
“I imagine you must be quite full,” he said gently, moving closer to the side of the mattress. Even without him touching me, I found myself sitting up and moving forward to the edge of the bed, drawn there as if magnetically.
“A bit, yes,” I said.
“You had a lot to drink last night,” he said, reaching forward to touch my feet, which I was now dangling off the side of the bed. “I wondered how you contained it all.”
“I didn’t contain it, really,” I said, still blushing. I wondered at the fact that I now felt self-conscious, the morning after I had just experienced one of the most fascinating cultural traditions of my life — in fact, the one I had based my entire graduate degree around.
“Better than most,” he said, still holding my gaze. Now his hand reached up, stroking my leg, his fingers slowly curling around the back of my knee. “You were trembling last night with the effort of holding.”
“I…I,” I stammered.
“It was very exciting, to see you standing there, quivering so,” he murmured. “To see your stark need, to see your desperation…knowing that I could provide what you needed.”
His hand around my leg tightened.
It was then that I recognized the need on his own face. I reached my own hand down to touch his head, letting his hair spill through my fingers.
He suddenly pulled, swiftly moving me up to and just past the edge of the bed, his hands moving from my knees to my hips. He balanced me there in open space: my legs spread, tipping off the side of the bed, with his head between my thighs.
“My lady,” he said.
My nightdress was open and I was bare underneath. With a look at my face, a gaze that held a question, he slowly pushed the dress up and over my hips.
For a moment I thought — I thought he actually meant to take me swiftly, right there. But no. He wanted to drink from me. His hands reached up to my waist, encircling me. And then…he pressed slightly. His fingertips sought a spot around my abdomen, and he squeezed me gently, but commandingly.
I felt the pressure build under his touch, and — almost before I was conscious of my own need, I was already urinating a thin stream. It picked up in force and fanned out before solidifying into a thicker jet of liquid: Pilot caught all of it capably on his tongue. In the light of the morning, with him positioned below me, I could actually see the water swirling around as I filled his mouth.
When I had finished, his eyes met mine, and slowly he closed his mouth and swallowed. I watched the muscles in his throat jumping; that small thing sent a rush of sensation to my inner thighs.
“How else may I refresh you, my lady?” he asked, indicating a full glass of water sitting by my bedside. “Juice? Coffee? Fire-water?”
“Just water is fine,” I said. I drank deep when he handed me the glass. He watched me drink with a yearning expression.
“I thought I might take you on a tour outside the capitol,” he said when I set the glass down.
“Most people here would love to show you the buildings and achievements of our urban people — but I thought you might appreciate a chance to see the natural flora and wildlife.”
I felt a rush of gratitude and appreciation for Pilot; I felt at that moment that he had divined my inner heart. “I am indeed weary from seeing and taking in so much, and speaking with so many people,” I said. “I would appreciate the opportunity for spending a restful period away from the city walls.”
“Anything you wish, my lady,” he said, inclining his head. “I will send word to ready the palanquin for our expedition.”
Pilot excused himself and, although several ladies’ attendants peered in to ask if I needed help with my dress, I shooed them away, preferring to dress Kartal Escort myself.
There was a pageboy in the hallway outside when I emerged, sent by Pilot to shepherd me through the winding castle hallways.
At the end of the path was Pilot, waiting next to the palanquin: the latter a spectacular replica of a mid-dynastic vehicle, and the former…well…there was no ignoring the fact that my spirits — and heart — felt lighter when his face came into sight.
“Are you ready to depart, my lady?” he asked, bowing and lifting his hand as invitation for me to step into the palanquin.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, letting my hand linger on his as he raised me up.
“I welcome any requests,” Pilot said as he climbed in alongside me, close enough for my skirts to brush against his bare legs, “but I do have one recommendation for today’s excursion.”
“Please, lead the way,” I said. “I am willing to be guided.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said, and rapped at the wooden slatted front of the palanquin. “To the Queen’s Forest, if you please.”
“Blacksmouth River?” the driver called.
The bearers below us lifted and the palanquin began to move forward, steadily and smoothly. The driver ran alongside, to steer and guide the bearers.
“I brought supplies for the day,” Pilot told me. “Food and drink and entertainment and items for personal comfort — please, tell me if there’s anything I can do to meet your needs.”
He indicated through the back pane of the palanquin, through which I could see several more bearers jogging. Following behind us, they carried packs on their backs and shoulders. I thought I could see the neck of a guitar poking out of one pack, and another had the distinctive bulge of fire-water bottles.
I took his hand between mine and smiled. “Thank you for all you’ve done to make my stay comfortable.”
He inclined his head — to hide his blush, it seemed — and squeezed back. “It was my pleasure, Ambassador. Please, let me continue to do so.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I told him. This time, he held my gaze.
When we arrived at the riverbank and disembarked from the palanquin, Pilot insisted on covering my eyes until we passed one bend. When he dropped his hands to let me see the waterfall, I understood why he had wanted me to glimpse this in its full and spectacular way.
From a peak higher than the tallest turret in the castle, water came tumbling out of the rock and cascaded down rough ledges until it churned the river water below.
“Who are those figures at the bottom?” I asked, peering at the brightly colored spots at the base of the waterfall.
“Monks and meditators,” Pilot said. “They come to be soothed by the torrent of the Queen’s Falls.”
“Huh,” I said. In all my years at school and in the course of my research on this unique culture, I had not encountered much writing about the spiritual nature of the country. I told Pilot so.
“I thought as much,” he nodded. “That’s why I brought you to one of our Holiest sites.”
“What? Really?” I gazed back over the scene. It made sense: many world cultures developed animistic religions, drawing inspiration from the local land, treating it as a benevolent or malevolent force. Something like a waterfall — the thunderous torrent of liquid — could have novel implications for a culture that worshipped piss.
“The water is clean and refreshing,” he said, leading me to the bank. “It is said to wash away spiritual impurities. And it remains safe to drink.”
He crouched to the water’s edge and drank deeply from the river itself; after a moment’s hesitation, I followed suit, heedless of the mud that might stain my skirt. I was conscious of Pilot’s gaze on my back as I knelt there.
Pilot guided me over the river itself, leading me step-by-step across the stones. Plenty of people were out here, sunning on the rocks, bathing, or socializing by the bank, but it not feel crowded.
In such an expansive space, it felt more like we were distant patrons of a grand museum, or spacious art gallery. The roaring of the falls provided a soothing, steady noise that chased away anxieties and distractions, leaving only peace and calm contemplation in its wake.
I stopped for a moment to dip my hand in the cool water, swishing it around. Pilot stopped and watched me with a look on his face that I couldn’t decipher.
“What? Is everything okay?” I asked him.
“Yes, my lady.” Then, abruptly, he said, “Do you not have to relieve yourself?”
“Mmm…not quite yet,” I said. “Truthfully, I would prefer not to do so in front of this crowd of people…”
Pilot looked almost…disappointed? He crossed the wide flat rock to me, and murmured,
“They’re watching you, you know…”
I looked up and realized — he was right. Many of the people at the edge of the water, or in it, were glancing at me. Some were outright staring. “Why?” I whispered. “Because I’m foreign?”
He laughed mildly Pendik Escort and shook his head. “It’s because you’re with me.”
“Yes. It signifies your rank, to be with an attendant. Your royal rank. And…”
“My royal rights,” I finished.
“That’s correct. They’re watching you because they know you have the right to relieve yourself where they don’t. And they want to see you make use of that opportunity.”
“Oh…” I mused.
“However…” said Pilot, taking me by the hand and leading me still further across the river until we were at the opposite side. “I can take you to a place that is private, where you may feel comfortable to enjoy the water at your leisure.”
And he did. We walked along the bank, closer to the waterfall, until we were nearly under it — and then he squeezed sideways into a narrow space. We emerged into a dark cave. Light filtered in through a huge window in one side, over which the waterfall poured, near enough that I could have thrust my hand through the opening and touched the stream.
“This is one of several inner sanctums,” said Pilot. “Open only to those with royal ranks and rights.”
“Wow,” I said. When I tore my gaze away from the view, I saw Pilot looking at me with a similar expression of wonder.
He took three slow steps toward me, crossing the gap between us.
“Now,” he murmured, his mouth just inches from my ear, “Now, won’t you relieve yourself?”
To be honest, I didn’t possess the need — and I told him so. His face fell, just slightly. I wondered if he was disappointed…if, as an untrained foreigner, I wasn’t living up to the standards of typical citizens. The Queen seemed to produce as if on demand. I realized I had seen her ingest — and urinate — an incredible amount of fluid over the past day. More, than it seemed, one body could hold.
Was it a matter of quantity of fluid one consumed? Or was there some secret, other, alien part to the people of this country that allowed them this unique talent?
I sat down on the dry stone at the back of the enclave. “However…I will have something to drink,” I said. “I’m parched.”
Pilot’s eyes brightened at that. “Yes, my lady? What will you take? River water? Fire-water?”
“Both,” I decided grandly. “One of each.”
“Your wish is my desire, my lady,” he said, and in no time at all he was handing me two goblets: one inset with small blue gems, and the other with red.
Sipping from one, and then the other, both the sweet river water and the sharp-honey alcohol, the taste of both mingled together in my mouth. I expected them to clash horribly, but instead they combined to form this lingering sweetness which mellowed the heat of the alcohol. It certainly would never have worked with regular water — there was some unique quality to the springwater of this mountain.
Pilot sat nearby and drank with me, answering my endless questions about the cultural traditions of the monarchy. It was thrilling to speak with someone who could be so frank and honest, without incurring embarrassment to either of us. Some of these questions were ones I would not have felt comfortable asking of the Queen, Herself.
After a short period, I set down both of my empty goblets at the same time. Pilot immediately refilled them and placed them back in my hands. So I kept drinking. And drinking. And he sat at my knee and also drank.
I may have watered down the liquor, but it was still powerful stuff: I was soon feeling the heady sensation of tipsiness.
So tipsy that I was able to relax the firm hold I usually kept on my own dignity.
There was a moment when, Pilot’s gaze locked with mine, I became cognizant of the need to relieve myself. And at the same moment, staring deeply into those entrancing eyes, I knew with deep conviction that Pilot wanted the same thing from me.
He was sitting on the ground just next to my foot, occupying the space between my legs, and half-turned toward me; his head about level with my knee.
He must have seen some determination in my gaze, because he started to move toward me even before I stood. I thought he might kneel to drink from me, as he did in the garden, but instead he turned away from me, sitting on his backside, and leaned backward.
Then, with both his hands carefully supporting my thighs and buttocks, he guided me down along with him, so that I was mounting his face and looking towards his…well. It was impossible to miss the swelling underneath the loincloth now.
“With your permission, my lady, I would relieve myself alongside you,” he murmured from between my thighs.
“Yes…” I said, hardly aware of what I even said. “Yes, of course…”
He opened wide for me — his lips spread like he was giving the most intimate of kisses — and I shuddered as some inner valve inside me unloosed a great gush of fluid, straight down into his waiting mouth.
He guzzled from me hungrily; and I released such a torrent that his manhood actually pushed aside Göztepe Escort the loincloth, growing greatly as it did. I watched it come alive. Pilot struggled to subdue himself enough to relax and similarly relieve himself.
But the sight of it made me greedily to lean forward and lick him. In full sight of such magnificence, I wanted to devour it. So, craning myself forward, trying not to disturb the alignment between my cunt and his mouth, I opened my mouth and delicately took the tip of his member between my lips.
He moaned, making a noise so deep and resonant that I felt my spine vibrate as he pressed his mouth against me. Meanwhile, I was still releasing, gushing onto his tongue and down his throat.
As my stream ebbed to a trickle, he licked me with broad, flat strokes: a cleansing stroke that also seemed to squirm sensation into every cranny and crevice of my intimate core. My legs felt weak, but his broad, strong hands gripping my thighs kept me aloft.
After a moment, he paused, lifted me a few inches higher like it was nothing, and, with his mouth now free, asked quietly, “Do you want a taste?”
With my mouth around his manhood, I gently but insistently guided him between my lips until he was stuffed deep, with no more room to squeeze in, nor even space for me to draw a breath. Then I withdrew, keeping firm pressure with my lips, and swirling my tongue around the tip before I took a quick breath, and said, “Yes.”
My interest, at that point, had passed the academic and anthropological.
When I took him into my mouth once more, he spurted almost immediately: just a small gush, before he clamped off the flow, but the rapidity of it belied his enormous need, and self-restraint.
I, never having sampled the stuff before, wondered what to expect: and found myself pleasantly surprised. The fire-water did indeed make the taste of human fluids intoxicatingly sweet.
But when I looked at him for more, he shook his head. “Not…yet,” he breathed. It seemed to take a great deal of self-control. He shook his head a few times, as if bewitched.
“There is…something I would like to do to you, and for you, if you would have me,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I know your education of our nation has mostly focused on the monarchical, and functional, purposes of liquid baptisms,” he began tentatively. “So much so, and so narrow this focus, that I understand you actually believed my role to be that of a second-class citizen.”
I blushed deeply. “I…I am so ashamed of that particular misunderstanding,” I said. “I do not mean you any disrespect — it is only that…well, a collar, and a state of near-nudity, parallels certain methods of slavery and oppression in my own society.”
“I understand that,” he said. “And I don’t mean to shame you for that misconception. But…” He looked at me a little desperately. “Ambassador, I want you to understand…I am a religious and spiritual minister. I command respect in the communities I visit. My garb is a symbol of my elevated status, not of a lowered one.”
“Oh…” It was finally sinking in for me.
“This is a profession I chose willingly, with eagerness and humility,” he said. “I serve the people. I serve you.”
I touched his arm. “And I am so grateful for that.”
He nodded. “And I want to continue serving you. While…I can’t convert you, or proselytize to you, I do still want to share the rituals of our community with you.”
“Yes. Water flows. It cycles, from place to place, and form to form. It is unchanging, and yet changeable. It is the same, and not the same. It is the great equalizer. It moves to fill empty spaces, and rushes to level all surfaces. It flows downward, and then rises upward. Change…exchange…cycles…these are all parts of the ritual of water-carrying.”
“Can you tell me more?”
He smiled, gratified by my questions. “The Queen is the head, the fountain, of the country — from her, all water flows downward. The people give her gifts of spring water, blessed water, fire-water, and she takes those offerings and converts them into blessings, blessings that flow throughout the nation,” he continued. “Among the common people, water can flow freely, and cycle throughout communities. But water always flows downward. The Bishops — people like myself — fulfill a vital role by transferring blessings from one form to another, and dispersing them on a wider scale than the monarch can achieve herself.”
“Essentially, Ambassador,” he said, looking directly at me. “I perform liquid baptisms. Water is meant to flow, to cycle. I take it from you, but I can also give it back to you, and thus make it stronger in the blessing.”
“What do you want to do?” I whispered.
He held me closer to him, intimately: “I thought of it when I watched you kneel down to drink from the river’s edge. The bathing I could give you.”
I moved away from him and walked to the underground pool, crouching by it. “Show me.”
He made an animal noise, came toward me, and in one swift motion — like he was already used to my skirts — pushed up all the fabric that covered my legs and nethers. I was bare underneath, of course, as I had anticipated many hurried occasions to relieve myself.
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