He wakes before the sun, slipping out of bed with practised stillness, pausing only to tuck the blankets in around me so that I will wake warm and coddled as a babe in soft clouds of cotton. I often wake with him, truth be told, but I let him believe he’s allowed me to sleep a little longer. It is my little gesture, to pay back his little gesture. Just one near-imperceptible tick of the metronomic sway that defines our lives together. The king has given me of his time, and I his consort bless him for it.
I breathe slow and deep, calm for this moment, listening to his sounds. He brushes his teeth with diligence, then flosses. The water drips from his stacked toothbrush onto the bathroom scale below the sink, each drop a plink on the glass. Plink, plink. The pace slows, and he is done when I count five full breaths between each drop. He is a clock for me to set myself to.
The sun peers through the blinds as he is done, and I open my eyes just enough to watch him. He is still nude, laying out his clothes for the day. Shirt, tie, underwear, trousers. He stands askance, the hoary morning light touching his peaks. The tips of the muscles, leaving the valleys in shade. He is a chiaroscuro vision, a man divided, and my sleepy eyes drift down the middling line to find his manhood. It hangs free and loose, shifting with each small motion, his testicles only slightly lower than his tip. I admire the heft, the flaccid thickness of the thing, the rumbled crown of flesh that hides his inner part. I do so enjoy it.
A leg rises to a chair, and he begins to comb the hair along it. Such strange rituals that we combine to make ourselves. The thick black hair needs no coercing, but he does it anyway. I could not begin to form complaint; with raised leg, his nudity is fully exposed to me. I drink in the sight of his fat penis nestled against his balls, the morning light giving shape to their size and form. Fat, heavy; patient. I remember the feel of them, the simple pleasure of holding them, stroking them, admiring them. Proxy for the man. Power of the master.
Perhaps my breath has caught, or perhaps he sees a glint in my eye. He looks to me now, both feet upon the floor, stance upright, casual. Demonstrative. Hands at his sides, crotch revealed. He allows me to take him in, and his words are soft, as though I yet sleep.
“He’s big today. I had a dream.”
Not merely flaccid, then, but turgid with remembered lusts. Thickened with erotic thoughts, fattened by a heartbeat chasing memory. I blink slow, staring at his glory as he lets me. My body has responded, but it is too early. I could do little now. He knows, as he knows all of me. A forward step. A second, making it a swagger.
“Can’t go to work like this.”
He could. He has. It cannot be hidden, but he can do nothing about how he is made. Nor should he. Still, I understand. The prince’s needs must be addressed if the monarch wills it. The consort must fulfil his part.
I roll gently to one side, my head lifting as he reaches me. His hands take my head—gentle, firm, eager—and I make myself available to him. I do not need to open wide; he can place the tip at my muzzle, upon my shivering tongue, and push in gently. Smell of man in my nose; my eyes already closed. A soft grunt as he pushes in, his foreskin unrolling along my tongue, the roof of my mouth.
“Good stallion…”
Long horse mouth to receive all the man can give. So big for his kind, yet I can take it all. The veiny flesh presses further into its second home, thrusting against warmth and wet, offering a dribble of sweetness in return. It smears across my tongue, my lips, and I leave it there. It is for me to lick off when he is gone; he will provide more for my satisfaction.
No fierce, animalistic rutting now. The dream is fresh in mind. He thrusts with slow and measured strokes: the king, demarcating his kingdom. His thickness is hard now, the head deep, foreskin vanished into the lengthened shaft. His grunting is passionate, and I delight in it. His hands upon my face stroke in counterpoint to his hips, and I let one hand rise to cup his orbs, to pass my heat into them, to put a little of myself inside him as he puts all of himself into me.
A pause. A stiffening. A tightening, below—and the prince speaks. I receive his every word, hungry for more, delighted and blessed. His father shakes a little, and smells of sweat and musk. He will not wash that off before he leaves. He will still have it on him when he returns this night, head full of thoughts of what he has not done to me now, and most eager to enact them. I would gladly raise myself now, and turn, and lift my tail for my king to enter his throne room once more—but the sun has risen, and even a king has duties he must perform.
His proclamation warms me yet as I slip back under covers, and soft lips kiss me upon the nose, and soft hands stroke my muzzle. I nicker softly, and the touch releases, and is gone. I can taste him still, as I shall for all of the day.
“See you later.”
The door closes, and I am left alone with a mouth coated in desire. My eyes close, and I vanish deeper into the bed. His taste will serve as memory until it has faded, and then fantasy shall take its place. I, too, can dream, and I will dream of my king until he returns to me, as he surely will.
And his palace shall be waiting.