King Horian, Graveltoes
King Horian, the brief, they called him the butterscotch king, he liked things sweet. The sasquatch king. The sassafras ruler. King Slurp, the usurper. The lisp and the stutter, the gumdrop leader, the king of toes, the king of kink, the slinky king. He took away the church. He locked away the key. Sexual decries every day for weeks. He fed the bibles to birds, they pecked away every piece.
He liked a light spank and a tight knot. He ordered replacements for Jesters, summoned the sexworkers from the brothels, placed them on the palace tiles, they were no longer to be reviled. He wrapped them in the finest leather, he filled the place with fondles. The seamstresses sewed an army of unnecessary zippers across the fresh cowhide. His people were encouraged to be taken as pets, to wear ball gags to court, to watch him laugh at all the sex acts. He rinsed butts with whipped cream. The spank and the clatter. He took his breakfast among the bodies.
“Our bodiesh are equal,” he lisped to the court, “sho, take and give an equal share!” He filled his chambers with tits and cock, replaced the bed sheets with bodies. The forever orgy for the living things.
Horian twisted his waxy beard in his calloused fingers as he watched, liked to make demands as much as he kept quiet. He’d hide behind a bush, he'd clench his teeth with a twig. He chopped wood in the nude wearing only his crown, out on the palace grounds, a wide stride in his gate, with his balls pronounced. He was noticeably erect at dinner. He ordered long, deep tables to be built so that guests could be serviced as they ate. He tucked every thirsty little sub underneath the cloths, they helped all the visitors off their rocks.
He freed those who stayed, freed them from chains. Of course those who stayed were likely to wear the willing chain. Horian, the pleasure seeker, had grand thoughts for his people, his small kingdom, he let be known, was only for the fully grown, for men and women unafraid to show their true selves in the light of day. No indulgence was to be hidden, outed was every kink, only secrecy forbidden.
The puritans fled the city gates, covered their children’s eyes and ears as they ran for someplace safe. Grown men walked on all fours, led by leashes carried by women once labeled whore. Now these ladies were mighty and bold and held to high esteem in court. After all, the King decried, that women come first, by any means.
Foreigners paid their visits to affirm their disbelief, every little tight lip afraid to give a quiver. They looked at him with clenched jaws, he looked at them like trained little pigs. "Appalled by the madnessh," muttered the king to himself, "afraid of their own shadness."
“My meshods,” he said to a visiting king, caressing the head of a man kneeling at his side, beneath a sheet, “are very shimilar to your own, don’t you shee?" After a loud gaffaw, this visitor, held his triangular nose to the ceiling, a sign of great disrespect, from his old world.
King Horian grew softer in his speech. "You shubmit to your god. I shubmit to the show. The show of handsh, of body partsh and underpantsh. Now, if you’ll excushe me, I’ve left shome looshe ends I musht go tie.” The king tilted his head back and laughed with a high cackle. He stood, guzzled his goblet of wine, sloppily slurped as it stained his robe. A red trail trickled down his chest, then he smiled, and said, “you’d be amazhed at what an ashhole can do.” He dropped his robe, and exited the room. A fatal mistake. A miscalculated moon.
The triangle king bared a cross affixed to his chest. He watched the mad king’s ass sway away from him in the lewd crude manor it’d been so accurately described. This nasty thing, this crude misuse of the body. Horian was to be made an example of.
Within weeks, while his kingdom of kink and savage pleasure was a single body intertwined, the triangle's forces from the east took the castle. Horian, the king of beasts, was found suckling on a woman’s feet. His lisped words slinked out past the toes beneath his teeth.
“This man is to be set in stone, why not start with just his feet.”
And like that the pleasure king was seized. They buried his feet in cement and made a public decry. Any citizen to show skin would be met with the wrath of their new king. They locked up anyone on the grounds that was nude for a lifetime of darkness and solitude.
The citizens of fuckery found pleasure in the darkness. They tormented the guards with their infinite orgies. Yet, the prisons were open rooms, and the filth stacked up, caused death and disease, the kingdom’s spirit broke, fell to its knees.
Outside, in the sunshine, laid the old king left to die. For weeks on end he was tortured, made to stand. The triangle king could not force the smile from the ungodly king’s face, so thrilled by the whip was he while standing in place. They salted his wounds and bound him to the ground, his feet mounted firmly, his knees bent to aching.
Then they left him there, alone, naked. His skin burned, his body caved, his once robust figure shrank day by day. With every rainfall he extended his lease. And then a drought in the land, and Graveltoes could see his defeat. The hazy clouds passed above him and he pictured all the delicious body parts in the formations. Light headed, near the end, footsteps in the distance. A hooded figure approached him.
He didn’t recognize the servant at first, covered by hood, and fully clothed. When she revealed her face he saw the sad kindness of one he used to keep in voluntary chains. He looked to her with weary eyes.
“Sho thirshty,” he gasped in words that felt like sand against his throat.
“I have no water,” she whispered, “my king.” His eyes welled at the mention of the word.
“Am I,” he whispered, “shtill... your king?”
“Forever you will be my king.”
“It will be the end of me, this thirsht.”
“My king, you can drink… from me.”
A rush flooded over him as she opened her legs, the man who’d thought of every depravity. He laid beneath her, a smile across his face. “Tell the rest,” he said to his savior. “Tell them their king is free.”