The Ravisher
The Ravisher
By Benji Bright
This is a short, somewhat aggressive piece. If you like it, and want to read more/contact me, visit me at The Erotic Ledger (http://theeroticledger.com), email me: benjibright [at] gmail.com, or follow me on twitter: @benji_bright. Thanks reading.
I have led nineteen campaigns of wars. I had crushed whole civilizations before my first gray hair. I have seen sunrise through the haze of smoke, the light indistinguishable from that of the fires burning across cities. I have heard the sound of prayers sent up as the people begged for their deliverance. I gave them fire instead. Fire and steel.
I have had kings on their knees, princesses in chains, magistrates licking the ash from my boot. Yet I have never heard a sound more beautiful, more sweet than the cry of another man's willing submission.
Revic was the first. A soldier in my army whose face would have been beautiful but for the thin scar vertically bisecting his face, a dividing line that tightened when he scowled and danced when he laughed. He came before me prostrate and I told him to remain on his knees if his desires were so fierce he thought himself worthy of bedding a conqueror. For three days he remained on his knees before I let him rise and stumble to me.
I told him that I was without mercy and he said he expected none. I used him as a vessel in which to pour the torment and tumult of my thoughts. I wrapped an arm around his neck and whispered to him of his exquisite tightness. I told him that I would kill him if he betrayed me, which only made him harder. I fucked him and as I was fucking him thought that he was disposable, interchangeable, which made me harder.
I remember the last time I saw him, but I prefer to remember the second-to-last. He wanted to let his hair grow long and I had indulged him, allowing myself to relax the standard to which I held all of my fighting men. That morning he rode on top of me like a conqueror. My fists full of his hair. I filled him with myself and he took my swollen prick with unusual fervor.
Afterward I asked what had driven him to such arousal. He neglected to tell me. The next day he was before me on the Pillar of Reformation as the Judge read his list of crimes. He had betrayed me and colluded with the rebellion. Always there is some rebellion.
In the end we were true to each other. I was without mercy and he expected none.
The next was Eladj, the seer who foretold my reign would end when I first felt the touch of love. It hasn't happened so far. He had hazel eyes and sun-browned skin. His lips were as sweet as his hands were bitter. He hated me and craved me. I would fuck him and his nails would tear at my back, he would curse me in three languages as I pushed into his tight ass. He would curse me in four if I slowed. He wrapped a rope, engraved with the runes of his native tongue, around my neck and pulled until I couldn't breathe, until multi-colored stars shot through my vision. I indulged him in this because it made me cum harder, and I doubted he could harm me, and I had burned his temple to the ground and all his brothers along with it. He had good reason to harm me and it amused me to let him try.
I gave Eladj robes sewn with golden thread and slippers so soft that he could not feel the ground. I fucked him daily and let him address his followers afterward about the necessity of resisting me—the conqueror, the ravisher—while my seed dripped down his legs. Eventually his followers, the devout, came for their leader. They infiltrated my hold and offered him a way out: he went with them in the middle of the night. I never saw Eladj again, but his proclamations still come from some secret location. Yet as a free man he no longer has the gravitas of a caged bird singing a song of rebellion. Now he's just another coward hiding in yet another hole. For all the talk of finding him and executing him that my counselors subject me to, I rather miss his voraciousness. The hypocrisy of his desire was a match for my own. And I liked his tight hole and soft lips around my cock.
The last was Tiur. A man truly without any compunctions. Once an agent of my enemies and then squirming in my bed, only later to disappear without a trace. I had him looked for and then hunted but neither yielded results. Rumors have floated to my ear that he resides in the furthest city of my dominion, conspiring, but I must be indifferent to rumor. I must deal with the myriad realities of a world grown increasingly under my control.
Of all those who have come into my bed, Tiur was the most wanton. He had neither Eladj's pride nor Revic's scruples. He would suck my cock as I addressed a room full of my counselors or allow me plow his hole as I read their reports laid across his back. I gave him gifts befitting a consort, but he paid them little heed. Tiur was a mystery that I never fully solved. Perhaps I was too busy, too invested in war and governance to unpack anything about him beside the size of his cock and the particular way in which he used the firm globes of his ass.
He left anyway and if my agents ever find him, I don't know what I'll do: have him executed for the affront or allow him to come back into my bed with open arms. I suppose I'll do whatever possesses me at the moment. That's how I've lived and it's done well by me so far, less well for the countless cities and peoples I've left in tatters behind me, but I must be unrelenting if I mean for history to remember me as the greatest of men.