He called them his sane moments, and when they came, he knew it was wrong.
What is a sane moment against an eternity of insanity?
So he raved on and lost himself in his thoughts. What was she doing? What would she do if she ever knew?
It was one of his favourite fantasies.
She would enter the room, and he would send his ministers away. The world could wait when she was calling.
He would stand and kiss her hand. He always did. But now, the kiss would linger, and her fingers would tighten around his own, the slightest bit.
He would look up and watch her face, fearful. There would be a smile, and he would turn her hand and kiss her palm. He died with her every smile. Always.
Her fingers would curl. Maybe she would sigh.
And then he would kiss her.
When he'd pull back, he would let his fingers trace the lines of her face.
His quill scratched over the paper; yet another document, yet another signature. He imagined that the paper was her face, and the quill was his hand, and he was caressing her, and marking her as his own with his name.
He would let his fingers run over her jaws, so delicately shaped, and feel the bone beneath, the very essence of her beauty. Over to her cheekbones, and blow a kiss on each of them, before he would watch her eyes.
Those eyes. They could swallow him whole, and in his fantasy, they would. He would dive into them and drown, and then he would kiss her again.
Sometimes, she was kissing him back, in his mind.
Those were his happiest days, but today was not one of them. Today, in his mind, she was pushing him back and telling him off for something he had yet to think of, and her eyes had that look that made him want to crawl in front of her feet and beg her to love him again.
The quill was pressing hard onto the paper, and oh, how good it would feel if just once, he would not crawl, if he would grab her in response and push her back against his desk and dig his fingers into her breast, and here his quill broke with a crack.
He ripped the soiled paper and thought of how he would rip the cloth from her and ravish her with his eyes. Her bosom would be heaving.
Maybe there would be a devious grin on her face, and a malicious glint in her eye that dared him to go on.
And her arms would sneak around him, and her fingers would claw into his hair, and she would pull him close to her, closer, so close.
And maybe, maybe there would be a breathless whisper in his ear. And a new quill was scratching over new paper. Say that you want me. He hadn't noticed the words forming, but now, he whispered them nonetheless. Say that you want me …
His hands would wander over naked flesh and feel her quiver, and the quill started shaking in his fingers, and another document was ruined. And he wished that his hands would leave marks and lines on her, just like ink did on paper. He thought of how he would trail his hands down her side, and how they would leave behind a line of burning red.
And by now, she would be begging him, would tear at him with her hands, and he would not refuse her. He would, could never.
A lackey cleared his throat. Spoke.
She was coming.
He spent a last thought on how white thighs would open for him.
Here and now, the door opened.
She was entering the room.
He stood, and kissed her hand. He always did.
The kiss lingered for a moment.
He looked up, fearful. Had she noticed?
Her fingers tightened around his own, only the slightest bit. Her eyes were swallowing him whole. There was a smile on her face.
He breathed a sigh of relieve and motioned for her to sit.
"I had not expected your visit … mother."