Twilight of the Dragons by Andy Remic Page A

a quizzical stare. “Yes, Geraldo? What is the matter? What could possibly be of urgency now, in this moment of our most intimate intimacy?”
    Geraldo coughed. “Look. Princess. I’m sorry. I’m a married man. I have two beautiful young daughters. I’m employed here as a butler, and I respect you as a princess, I really do, but I am an honourable man. I was a military man, and I don’t think it’s right for me to come to your bed.”
    Princess Emilia Ladine considered this, then slipped the chiffon robe from her shoulders, where it tumbled lazily, erotically, to the floor. She licked her lips. Her eyes were dreamy with drugs.
    â€œI am royalty. You will do as I say.” She started to rub her hands up and down her body, swaying her hips, and moved backwards again, to recline naked and glistening on the silk sheets of the bed. “Come here, boy.”
    â€œPlease, Princess, I cannot do this…”
    â€œCome here, or I will tell my uncle to have you beheaded. Publicly. And I will ensure your pretty little wife and pretty little daughters are there to witness the spectacle.”
    Geraldo lowered his eyes, and shuffled forward to stand beside the bed. Oh no. It’s happened. She’s finally going to force me to entertain her sexually, like I’ve seen so many other poor bastards endure…
    Emilia touched herself between her legs. She groaned.
    â€œCome,” she said, face cracking into a sculpted smile, “I want to witness your succulent tongue, I want to be orally stimulated by you, I wish to feel your tongue, down here, tickling and tasting, licking and sucking and flicking; I want you to come here and make me come…” and she frowned suddenly, pointing to his limp penis, “and do something about that, make it hard, immediately, or I’ll…”
    â€œI can’t just make it hard,” snapped Geraldo, anger suddenly getting the better of him. Five years of hardcore manoeuvres on mock battlefields, beaten by swords, skewered by capped spears, punched in the ribs during unarmed combat – to end up here. “I’m not a fucking machine!”
    Emilia gasped. “Oh my. Oh by the gods! By the Seven Sisters! I cannot believe you feel no sexual attraction towards me, your little princess, for I am perfect in every way! I’ve had a hundred lovers, each one desperate to lick and suckle my perfect pert breasts, each one eager to kiss my sweet mouth, each one desperate to thrust his manhood inside me and bring me squealing to a pinnacle of perfect writhing pleasure… how dare you not get a hard cock and pleasure me …”
    Geraldo coughed, looking down again. Now he was really fucked. Or not.
    Emilia climbed onto her hands and knees, the dreamy drug state evaporating as righteous anger took hold. Her face changed, from sweet, pampered and powdered pooch, to a mask of anger which turned her into something ugly and horrific. Rage swam through her face like piranhas through blood-infested waters. Her eyes narrowed and an accusing finger lifted, pointing at Geraldo.
    â€œYou… you are going to fucking hang …” she said.
    â€œBut… Your Highness!”
    â€œGuards! Guards!” she squealed.
    There came a whump. Emilia’s hair streamed behind her and she blinked, ten times in rapid succession, simply not understanding what she was seeing, or indeed, what had happened. She could see the pool, shimmering with crimson sunlight. Her entourage of sycophants were running around, apparently, in circles, screaming and knocking over goblets of fine wine. But, but, but she suddenly realised the tent had gone. And so had Geraldo.
    â€œGeraldo?” she said, voice tiny.
    There came a distant crack, a pause, a sound like rainfall, and then the upper half of Geraldo’s torso slammed onto the white flags before Emilia. From the broken waist trailed streamers of tendon and tattered muscle, and from the