The Ghost Ship

The next day is Sunday—or it would be, if I lived in a world with weekends. The Dead Empire sticks to no calendar. Time is measured in hourglasses, candlesticks and every appearance of a full moon. I think Sunday because I wake up to the sound of a loud chiming even before dawn can brighten the sky. Picking up myself in a mild doze, I trace the bell tolling to a lonely tower at the cliff's edge overlooking the sea. My bedroom's window is a door's full length and so pushing the heavy drapes, I'm granted a cinematic view of the tower.

It's a dark finger reaching into the gray early morning sky.

A bell tower. I would say I expected to see one eventually.

The chimes keep sounding, tolling across the hundreds of candlelit homes beyond the castle. I move closer to the window, peeking more into the mild darkness. The curtains swish in the passing of sea breeze. Only a few early birds are visible in the city, most of them patrol guards going through the cobbled streets to light torches the night wind blew out.

I look again to the bell tower, its chiming already fading to a distant echo reverberating off its rugged headland. For the few minutes before my handmaidens will see fit to barge into the room, I stare into the quiet morning. The shallow seconds between late night and sunrise. I think of my former life.

At this moment, presumably five thirty, the Forsythe household would be regaled in one of my mom's favourite churchy playlists.

Dolly Parton.

Kenny Rogers.

Don Moen.

The list goes on.

Though my mom is descended from the Carpathians, a gypsy true blood, there is no love lost between her and the Christ. We are Catholic to the bone. Or at least were. One of the many things my parents shared with the Grimms, Lance's family, and among the many that also endeared them to one another. Faith in a supreme watchful being. Thinking back, it's unreal that I'm in this world. A world of magic, possibilities, realms of terror and horror. But being one with more than an atom of faith, it's not too hard to believe in the existence of magic. The Spiritflame. Undying evil. And arcane sorcery. I'm already used to the imbibed thoughts of spirituality and the Supernatural. Thank God for Sunday school.

As the morning progresses, there is a natural calm over the city. The Capital's traders who would already be up by now, unlocking stalls and pulling out wares are nowhere in sight. The smell of brine, deadwood, and dew carries on the sea breeze. It's very similar to the smell pervading the Aquarium we once visited in Iowa. Myself, Lance, and both our parents. I think I was seven. But I'd never forget the look on Lance's face when we passed by the tank of sharks. Pride glowed in his blue eyes.

"Beautiful," was all that escaped his hushed lips.

And even then I'd wondered who thought Great Whites were beautiful.

My mom always said each Sunday came with a special blessedness the other days of the week didn't have. A unique blend of the divine. Perversely like a blood moon to a ritual. She called it the day of miracles; said the day of God's rest is also the day where he looks over his creation with a Big Daddy smile. And little me absorbed all her words like fodder to a donkey.

I've always felt a different way, different air, different energy each Sunday. Call it an inkling, a perception brought on by memories of the sugary smell of cute buns wafting as I'd descend the steps to a laid-out breakfast before church, or the sunny rays bathing my mom and dad as they linked hands in the kitchen, or the expectation of seeing Lance at church in his freshly pressed tux and polished Graysons, waiting for me under the light of a stained-glass window, looking like Raphael in a suit.

I feel the same way now which makes me conclude without a shred of doubt, this is your typical Sunday in Mythronos.

A golden sun is just rising from my left, bursting through the darkness in rays of splendid colors. Purple first. Red. And then orange.

In the remnants of night, I peer again to the bell tower, squinting as I catch sight of something beyond its needle point. Something in the vast sea.

A ship. A lonely ship.

It sits on the glimmering waves, enchanted in the dawn, too faraway to make out the emblem on its sails. It's a dark thing rocking on the ice-cold water. I blink once, and it's gone. One moment there, the next, not. I blink a few more times, thinking I must have missed it or something. But I didn't. I have a clear view of the sea. The ship—mysterious sails, empty hull and all is vanished. Right out the water.

A Mary Celeste.

I do recall one thing though. The shape of its body. Though it had been for about five seconds a black thing upon the waves, the front of its hull had been shaped into the head of a serpent. I'd remember those blackwood scales anytime.

My ships had their hulls shaped in front to a woman with a spear, not a red-eyed serpent. My banners are scarlet gold, not black as night.

Who the hell's ship was that?

Like a premonition, my mom's words ring in my head. 'Sunday is special, Allie.' How special though?

Pulling back to the curtains, I block out shiny shiny yellow rays of the risen sun. Then I traipse back to my bed, trying to forget the huge wooden serpent slithering across frothing waves of a dark sea, and enjoy the few blissful seconds before the curtains are torn apart again by the hands of my handmaids. No such luck. It seems I've only just hit the bed before the door unlocks, ushering in the multitude of uniformed girls.

Uh! I grab a fat pillow and glue it to my face.

I could order them out, but just then my stomach growls. Loudly. The patter of feet actually stops in the room and I feel eyes on me almost immediately. They are staring.

Great! The queen is hungry and everyone knows it.

My belly grumbles again and someone hurries out, no doubt to fetch one beautiful person. Yennara's wild country scent hits me a minute later.

How does she smell so heavenly? Like Irish highlands. Or fields surrounding an Aztec temple. She smells like paradise.

My head is still buried under the pillow, and knowing she can't see, I take great lungfuls of her until her fragrance is all I can think about.

Pure heaven.

Abruptly, she clears her throat.

Crap!

Maybe she can see.

Hopefully she'll think I'm just waking up. Hopefully. In order to sell it, I fake a yawn. And then in a tired gesture, I pull the pillow off. I'd hate to be the creep who smells another person.

Heavens! My jaw falls as I blink away all fake sleep. I blink many times at the young woman sitting before me at the bed's edge. She looks extra hot today. Extra spicy. Louisiana hot sauce.

"Yennara, my God," I gasp.

I can't help myself. Her hair is done up in side plaits, brown as beach sands, the top left full and coiffed. Her skin is caramel cream, her mulatto heritage on display for my hungry eyes. Her doe eyes are full and bright, the sunlight from the open windows mirrored perfectly in them. Her figure as she leans over me...

No. I won't got there.

She is an angel though. My Sunday miracle.

"Your breakfast, Your Grace. Good morning," she says, her voice the perfect blend of music and speech, like soft waves meeting the shores of the beach.

She makes me think of Barbados, of islands glowing in the sun.

I need air. To breathe something that isn't her. Looking down, I try to avoid the hollows of her throat and the sweet sweep of her neck, decked in a high-collar crimson shawl stringed in the front. My eyes dip down her breasts and I quickly sweep to the breakfast tray in her hands.

"Can I eat on the balcony?"

Her eyes shimmer. "As you wish Your Grace."

Picking up the gilded tray, she heads out the bedroom through a wide archway partitioned by lilac veils billowing in the glorious dawn. Her body is a work of art as she emerges on a circular balcony. My eyes feast on the swishing motions of her gown. Yennara is a gazelle. No wonder she'd captured even Lance's eye, the one who got away.

I mean...I'm a girl and I see her. Let alone the boys.

She's fire. Cheyenne had once sold a wet shirt pic of herself for five grand to a car wash company. Five grand! It had been their marketing piece for a month.

Picking myself up a second time that morning, I head for the lavatory. I don't know if it's a blessing or curse that I find no drawer full of ancient dildos.

I spend less time than I usually do bent over a sink before hurrying out the balcony. The vision of Yennara and food is twice appetizing. A small picnic meets my eyes as I clear through the purple veils. Yennara had laid out on the gravel floor a thick blanket. She sits on it, her hands folded in her lap. Spread across before her is the tray emptied of its contents. We have an uncorked jar of wine, silver goblets, apples, bananas, a fat bread loaf, its slicing knife, and a hot tub of chocolate. A shiny kettle also rests to the side.

"You said the balcony," Yennara offers, catching my wide eyes.

"Mmhmm." Nodding to her, I sit opposite her at the empty space she waves to.

The day is windy and we enjoy the refreshing view of the kingdom below.

I go first for the bananas. Picking one off the bunch, I peel and begin to munch.

"What?" I smile—half giggling and half covering my mouth—when I catch Yennara staring.

"Nothing, Your Grace." She blushes. "You just remind me of a lover I used to have."

"A lover?" I lean in. My ears fox up. This is going to be an interesting Sunday. "A boy or girl?" I ask pointedly, taking another bite.

Yennara blushes more at my mention of a girl. I take it homosexual relationships aren't yet conventional then. What can I say? Welcome to the middle ages.

"A boy," she replies.

"Well go on, love." I hold her gaze, eager for the tea.

Yennara begins to play with her fingers over her lap. "He wanted me to do some things."

"Things?" I quip.

"Things, yes. In the privacy of romance, he wanted me to..." She trails off, lifting her right hand, opening two fingers over her lips, and then making sucking sounds.

A banana slice hooks in my throat.

"He wanted a blowjob!!!"

I swallow hard. Yennara turns full red. "Blowjob?" She enquires innocently.

"He wanted you to suck his cock," I expand in a set voice.

She averts her eyes at my vulgar language. "That's—"

"Correct?" I finish for her.

"Yes." She gives a simple nod. "He wanted me to suck his cock."

"And did you?"

All the blood drains from her face. She stares at me like a neuroscientist finding an alien with a square head. But when it's clear I'm not changing the subject, she grabs the kettle and begins to pour, steam rising between us. I settle in on the picnic blanket, ready to listen. Handing me a mug, she starts,

"I did. I tried to at least."

I collect the mug from her, taking a sip.

"He was mostly unhelpful, trying to drill into me right away." She shrugs. "But I figured it out after a while. He spilled only a minute later."

Spilled? Oh! Cum. A one-minute man too? That's terrible. Still funny though.

This is too interesting already.

I lower the mug out of reach.

"Show me." I command, gesturing to the banana bunch with a raised eyebrow.

"Your Grace?" Yennara looks unsure. She must see the defiance—and slight arousal—in my eyes because she rises to the challenge.

Plucking one off the bunch—a girthy one if I dare say so myself, she peels it, softly exposing the cream head.

Yummy. Just yummy.

I focus on her fine fingers as she holds it at its base.

"Here," I say. Lifting a hand, I take her wrist, bringing her towards me. I place the base of her right hand which holds the banana between my thighs, right over 'the' spot. You know? The one that makes all the guys go GaGa. Since I'm wearing gray silk shorts, Yennara's closed fists settle snug over the warm material. Both of us pretend she doesn't feel the heat of my pussy just underneath.

"Go on." I meet the fire in her eyes with equal blaze in mine.

I don't know what we are both doing but this is now far from a mere showcasing.

Yennara is bent over before me, her hands between my legs, her face below me. I am granted the view of her svelte figure prostrated, thinking only one thing. She has an amazing ass.

"Like this?" She calls softly in a tempting voice, her molten brown eyes looking up, trained on mine. I nod but remain silent.

Using her free left hand, she rubs off the moist tip of the banana. Yennara just turned a fruit into a sex weapon. Parting her lips softly, she dips low, closing them first over the cream head, coating it with just a hint of her saliva. Her tongue plays around for a while. I stare, mesmerized. And then she goes down on it. Way down.

Yennara opens her mouth wide, taking the banana until only the base held in her hands is visible. Her sexuality is a magnet. Healthy. Scorching. Powerless to stop myself, I clasp her head, holding up her hair so the wild curls don't interfere.

"Yes, right there, you whore." I pat the sides of her face, earning me a choked smile from her. I have absolutely no idea who I am right now.

"Yes. Suck that cock!" I love seeing her mouth so full. Taking more than she can handle but desperate for more. "Now look at me. Look at me!" I command down to her.

Her eyes trail slowly up to mine. They are shiny brown pools. I don't let her eyes stray one bit as I guide her head up and down, slowly increasing our tempo. She swallows. Wheezes even. But I don't let her stop. She coughs below me.

"Yeah! You little slut. You like that, don't you? Harder, bitch! Suck that cock harder!"

I don't know if I'm the same Allie anymore. I'm possessed. Yennara; with her pretty fucking eyes and lovely mouth has seduced me.

"Yes. Fuck yes! Keep going Yen."

She deepthroats again, leaving saliva on my thighs. It's dirty. I'm loving it.

With one hand, I hold up her hair. With the other, I trace a path to something I've envied for just about forever. Her ass. So full and soft. And right within reach. When my palm closes over it, I can't help smacking her. She shudders in my hold.

"Good. Keep sucking. Don't you dare stop." I boom down. "Don't you dare!"

She's quaking now, taking all I give like a pro. My hands are all over her. Urging. Dominating. This is going too far. But I can't stop. Never...

"Your Majesty?"

We both freeze at the solid voice. That baritone.

For a second, we do nothing. Yennara and I just stay there, with her bent over me, sucking away, and with me lightly tapping her twerking ass. Please dear God, let it not be who I think it is. I dare to raise my eyes. The humiliation that floods my body douses any form of arousal fast as liquid nitrogen.

"Lance," I rasp.

He has an amused look as he peers down at us. Confident. Not one bit bothered by my red face. Like he finds our position funny. Below, Yennara gags, the banana lodging and breaking off in her throat. My poor Sub!

She chokes, hurriedly swallowing. And I clamp my legs closed hard and fast, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment at the wetness I feel when my thighs rub together. We had been so lost. So gone...

How didn't we notice his knightly bulk over us? Not hear the metallic clanging of his battle-sandals? Did he knock?

Dear me!

"Yes Sir Lancelot, what is it?" I ask, annoyed.

His devious grin spreads. A blue-eyed Lucifer. There is no way he hadn't seen what we'd been doing. Yennara is completely turned away from him, unable to even meet his eyes. I fear her face is the color of a fire hydrant. But then adopting a straight face, Lance replies,

"Sailors have sighted a ghost ship Your Majesty, bearing the evil banners of Lord Crave. A serpent with crimson eyes manning the front hull."

My mind zeroes in on the last part.

A red-eyed serpent. I hadn't dreamed the black ship after all.