CHAPTER WARNING: This chapter contains a rather frank depiction of sexual intimacy that some might find deserves an M rating. If that's not your cup of tea, you can skip the section between the horizontal lines and not lose the plot.
Chapter Twenty-six
The Significance of Signals
Empress Hoshi Sato
I've left it for a few days.
Nothing has been said. Life in the Imperial household has continued just as it did before, with my husband being just as polite as if nothing had been said at all, and as calmly self-contained as if he hadn't admitted to me that he hasn't had sex since our marriage either.
Frankly, you could have knocked me down with a feather when he said that. Of course, I couldn't find out any evidence that he had, but I know that there are enough opportunities for – well, let's call it 'easing tensions' if you want to. I'm absolutely sure he knows that that personal secretary of his has the hots for him, and they work in an office together for hours at a time. It would have been the simplest thing ever to solve both their problems by laying him across a desk and taking what he's obviously more than anxious to provide.
So why hasn't he?
He didn't say and I didn't ask, though of course I'm curious. I was surprised he even admitted to having gone without, because that's not something your average guy likes to admit, especially when he technically has every body of every gender or none available to him from one end of the Empire to the other. When I was crowned, I definitely didn't go without. Remembering the marathon sessions I used to have, with bodies fixated on pleasuring me rather than the other way around, I shift in my chair. Okay, I'm pregnant, but I'm still human…
Well. We had the talk the other evening, and insofar as I can read him, he seemed to be sincere enough. And what he said made sense. It sure wasn't romantic, but then if he'd tried to be I'd probably have laughed in his face. In practically every way I can discover, Austin Robert Burnell is a pragmatist from the tips of his toes to the ends of his fingernails.
That said, his pragmatism doesn't prevent him from being thoughtful, even kind. In a lot of ways it's a real improvement on 'romanticism', which can be as hollow as a rotten log.
So. He offered. And tonight, for some reason, I'm more aware than usual of that nice scent I catch as he passes.
It's not quite time for bed, but Rama's been playing like a mad thing, chasing a bunch of feathers on the end of a string that I've been dabbling about on the floor, and he's worn out. As kittens do, he ran out of energy quite quickly and tottered over and fell beside my feet, showing all his little white teeth in a cavernous yawn.
He probably isn't quite ready for his basket yet, but it's beside me and I scoop him up and put him in it. At first he objects, like any kid told to go to sleep when he's not that tired, but I stroke him till he relaxes and within a couple of minutes he's realized it's kind of nice and comfortable, and after that it's not long at all his eyes droop shut and he's gone.
After waiting till I'm quite sure he won't wake up when I lift it, I stand up. Most nights I carry it into my room, but tonight, for no reason at all, I take it into the corner, where I set it down out of the reach of any draughts. All couples develop a system of signals that enable them to navigate a course, and some are more significant than others.
The silence behind me is both observant and thoughtful.
Ridiculously, the palms of my hands feel slightly clammy as I go into my room. Why the hell should I feel so nervous? But as I unfasten the tie of my long blue negligee and pull out the jeweled clasp that's been holding my hair in its formal arrangement, I'm definitely conscious of a flutter of something.
Probably half the problem is the knowledge that the man I've invited in here isn't heterosexual. There's no point in playing the usual games. I don't even know if he finds me even vaguely attractive, so what point is there in adopting one of the usual poses to show off my body in ways a heterosexual man would find arousing?
He said he can appreciate beauty in women as well as in men. Does he think I'm beautiful? He's never said so. Somehow it was never part of the bargain.
My mirror assures me I'm still beautiful. I watch what I eat, exercise regularly, and I'd still fit into clothes I wore when I was a mere junior officer aboard Enterprise if there was any earthly reason why I'd want to put them on. More than enough men have told me I'm beautiful – even Reed breathed 'God, you're gorgeous' a few times, and I don't think he was just saying it to flatter me.
I suppose it all boils down to what I should expect in the next few minutes, and frankly I have no idea.
At least he doesn't make me wait more than a minute or two. There are crystal candleholders on the bedside tables, and though normally I'd expect a servant to light them after preparing me for bed, tonight I do it myself, and this is how I know my husband received my signal correctly. Rather than risk the humiliation of dismissing the small entourage that helps me settle in at night only to be stood up by a husband who can't read me or doesn't want to be bothered, I left it to him to call them off so that the gossip around the palace will be that he came seeking me, that the Empress really has succeeded in turning the gay Emperor heterosexual, at least for her. I know it's ridiculous, but that's what some will be saying, and it's flattering to my ego. By the time the flames are bobbing over all six perfumed candles, Austin's framed in the doorway, looking at me steadily.
He's ditched the robe he usually wears after showering, though he's still wearing the iron-colored silk pants he had on underneath it. And though I'm already aware that he's very fit, this is probably the first time I've had both the time and the opportunity to take a good look at his body in a sexual context, and what I see is very promising.
Frankly I think over-developed musculature is a turnoff. Alpha's body was right on the edge of being too much, he was so built that he hardly had to exert half of his potential strength to beat any average man of the same height. Sometimes I saw him and Reed play-wrestling and Reed always lost, though sometimes I suspected he could have put up more of a struggle before the inevitable defeat because he wasn't exactly feeble himself; making a joke of it enabled him to lose the contest without losing face. Burnell, however, is taller than either of them and it has to be said that he's really nicely put together. Suddenly I have more sympathy for young Trainor, stuck in an office every day and drooling over the Unattainable.
Unattainable to him, but not to me. Despite the strangeness of the 'bargain' we have going here – having sex with a guy who openly admits he's doing it as a service to me rather than because he finds me irresistible, which was what all the others said because it would have been more than their lives were worth to say anything else – well, it's going to be strange to say the least.
But even if he doesn't find me attractive, that doesn't prevent me from finding him attractive. And as long as he has some idea what buttons to press, I'm sure we can work on refining his technique. As crude as the allegory may be, a dildo isn't excited but it can still give you multiple orgasms.
"Dare I ask if you've done your homework?" I ask, laying back on the bed and finding to my inward annoyance that I've automatically adopted a semi-seductive posture.
"Of course." Well, of course he will have done. Mister Efficiency in person. I just hope he hasn't confined himself to downloading a couple of porn movies and mistaken those for an education in how to give a woman the time of her life.
As he crosses the room, shucking off his pants, I'm pleased to observe that whether or not he finds me sexually alluring, at least part of his 'homework' has resulted in him being able to do the necessary. There's not much more discouraging than to see a dick that would rather be home reading a book. Nor does he interrupt the moment by stopping to pick them up and drop them over the back of a chair; okay, the 'trail of clothes to the bed' may be a bit of a trope, but the feeling that you come a dismal second to needing the floor to be tidy is not exactly calculated to get the fires of passion roaring either.
He lies down beside me and I expect him to make a grab, but he doesn't. He holds eye contact, and his expression is thoughtful, even serious.
"I'm not going to be good at this straight away," he says quietly. "It's another learning cycle for me. But I'd appreciate any guidance you want to give me. The more you let me know what works, the quicker it can get better."
"Well, no woman is a machine." I'm not trying to be flippant; to tell the truth I'm rather touched by his surprisingly humble admission that he needs help. "You can't write an instruction manual. Sometimes what feels good one day may not necessarily feel good the next." Most guys I've ever known think the manual not only exists, but that they wrote it. It's kind of refreshing to find one willing to take the advice of the real expert instead of pretending that they are one.
"I can understand that." He touches my bare shoulder lightly, and though it seems to be very much an experimental contact, nevertheless it sends a frisson through me. It's been such a long time since I was touched in a sensual way by anyone. "This feels incredibly soft."
Of course there are biological reasons why a woman's skin is softer: estrogen means a thin subcutaneous layer of fat is deposited in it, plus it's about 20% thinner than a man's. But now doesn't seem to be the time to go into the scientific reasons, mostly because now that he's settled down beside me, he leans in and starts to kiss me.
At first, no, I'm not sure I'm going to like it. Definitely I wouldn't if he went straight in with the tongues thing, this macho penetration-mimicking some guys believe is practically mandatory to get their partner excited. But he really does smell nice, without being overpowering, and his kisses are gentle and exploratory. He takes his time before there's the suggestion that I might like to part my lips, and by that point I sort of want to do it anyway. In the meanwhile his hand has started to stroke down my side, steadily and rhythmically as though he's stroking a cat, though once again there's this learning feeling to it, as though he's trying to build up a picture in his mind of how my body is put together. No stroke is exactly the same as the one before – it either shifts slightly to explore a few new centimeters or it exerts different pressures to find out what's underneath the skin and how it reacts. There's no sense of hurry about it, and I suppose that's not surprising, given that I already know he has the patience of a python.
Sensual exploration doesn't have to be a one-way process even under these circumstances. My own hands are doing their own thing, and his flesh is warm and smooth. It has to be said that he has an absolutely delectable ass, and as I cup my hand around his uppermost buttock I can't help but envisage it working to drive his dick into me. This is already lying against my thigh, and there seems no good reason why I can't make its acquaintance during the preliminaries.
He's still kissing me, but the breath goes out of him in a snort of almost-laughter. "I'll give you a week to stop that."
"I don't see any reason why I should, do you?"
"For the time being, no. Feel free, please."
Anticipation is beginning to course through my body. I'd wondered if I might need lube, but that will clearly not be a problem. The material of my nightdress is plain and sheer, and the peak of my nipple attracts his attention.
Damnation, he knows how to tease, I'll give him that. By the time his lips finally close on it I'm almost grunting with impatience.
"Take this off and sit across me."
The nightdress joins the pants on the floor and he guides me to where he wants me, straddling him and leaning both hands against the wall. The heaped pillows support him so he's free to use his mouth and both hands, and he does, while I jerk and shudder and grind my sex against his lower belly. For a newbie he sure is a quick learner, and he's incredibly thorough.
I'm probably more surprised than I should be when he suddenly gives a couple of powerful wriggles that take him down the bed. He's now looking at my sex, and though his expression is mostly one of curiosity, it's the sort of curiosity that gives you the feeling he wants to know how it works.
Most of the lovers I've had have done some groundwork before this point. It's kind of new to have a tongue being the first contact, but he's in no hurry and he braces his arms and hands to keep me still so I can't precipitate things.
He hasn't said much up till this point, but now the feedback starts. And while having to draw someone a diagram isn't the sexiest experience in the world, his voice has dropped an octave and he manages to make the conversation both intimate and incredibly arousing.
"Is that good?"
"Ye-es. More."
"Like this."
"Yes."
"So I think you might enjoy this."
"Jesus."
"I'll take that as a 'yes'."
"Harder. Yes."
"I'll get there. No, you're not forcing things. Let me do this for you." And he does, listening like an owl to every gasp and moan as his tongue works me until I'm all but begging him to finish me off; at which point he puts all the information he's so carefully gathered to the best possible use, and I come repeatedly across his face while his suddenly viselike grip holds me immobile so I can't escape.
'Fair exchange is no robbery.' The old saying slips through my mind as I'm finally allowed to pull back and absurdly he dabs a parting kiss on my pubic mound like the 'cherry on top'. If he's wearing an expression that can only be described as a smirk I suppose I can't resent it too much, given that my sex is now raw with hunger that the explosions he's caused have only partially satisfied.
My mouth tracks down his body. His own nipples are sensitive and I don't neglect them, but if I'm going to complete my satisfaction, my goal is further south. And he may not be hetero, but a hand is a hand and a mouth is a mouth, and I make sure he can not only feel but watch as I get to work. Any guy is going to put off zero hour for as long as possible and I don't imagine his ego is proof against enjoying watching the Empress of All the Conquered Worlds suck him off, but then his dignity as the Emperor didn't prevent him licking me out, so that's that fair exchange in operation again. And if he really has gone without since our wedding day, I'm guessing there's a fairly short limit to the time he can keep control of what's going to happen.
For a while he just lies there watching, his lips slightly drawn back and a predatory expression on his face, just stroking my hair occasionally or touching my lips. Then he sits up and lies alongside me, and for a few minutes our bodies are twined together while both of us work each other's genitals. For the first time his fingers slipping inside me give me the sample of what will follow shortly, and it's not long before he gently pushes us apart.
"You had no choice last time, Hoshi. This time you decide."
The honest truth is that by this time I don't much care, as long as I get his cock inside me, but after a minute I decide. I roll onto my back and direct him to kneel between my thighs, and not only does this position afford maximum penetration but it's easier for him to watch and learn. A few pillows shoved into position help with support and stability, and then we're all good to go.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Push it into me."
Daaaaaaamn, it feels good. The slow pressure wave exudes confidence. He's in control of himself, we're both going to enjoy this. I adjust my posture slightly, so I'm completely comfortable.
As soon as he's in to the max, he stops. I suppose it was inevitable that he has his own ideas; he makes me lick his thumb and then starts to stroke my clitoris. And of course, as sensitized as it still is, I start to writhe with the pleasure of it. The only part of him that's moving is the tip of his thumb and I'm jerking him off, and I can tell by the expression on his face that he's loving getting so much reaction for so little effort. Bastard.
But there's only so long he's prepared to put up with playtime. Up till now my legs have been wrapped around his waist, but he pulls them up to hook over his shoulders and then he starts taking charge. A hitched breath from me says that depth of penetration is almost painful so he pulls back at once and adjusts slightly so it won't happen again – I've been advised that sex shouldn't pose any danger to my pregnancy and without doubt he's made the same enquiries, but he's not going to take any risks. Still, he's clearly got the taste for this and wants more, as much as I can take.
Conversation resumes. I won't say it's not garbled, but he's still asking for responses, still learning. Does that hurt, does that feel good? Slower? Faster? Harder? I can feel the pressure building up and the point's coming when all I want to do is scream just fuck me, but at the same time I don't want it to be over.
Suddenly his hard, rapid breathing breaks into the groan of release he can't hold back any longer. He loses control and just starts slamming into me, and that tips me over. I convulse as the force of his thrusts almost drives me up the bed, the violence of my orgasm making me howl like a mating cat. Pillows scatter everywhere but it no longer matters, we're welded together in one shattering explosion of pleasure in which nothing else has any reality, and when it finally ebbs it's almost a surprise to find that very self-contained man crouched over me, shaking in the aftermath and politely trying to wipe away spittle before it can drip onto my belly.
It has to be said that speech isn't easy to come by right now, but I feel that something needs to be said. For a guy who doesn't even find women sexually appealing, he's sure done a job of acting like I'm the exception.
The urgency of sex when it's happening effectively disguises a lot of what are afterwards revealed to be extremely inelegant positions. My legs are still hooked over his shoulders, and frankly I don't know of any graceful way to disentangle us, but when he's gotten some of his breath back he competently lifts my ass and shuffles himself backwards, letting me lower myself with some dignity.
He may be surprisingly humble sometimes, but one thing he is not is a hypocrite. He doesn't even try to pretend that he doesn't know he's done well.
When we're lying side by side again he puts his arm around me almost tentatively. Some things between us may have changed, but he's not presuming. It feels natural to snuggle up and put my head on his chest, listening to the heart still thudding behind his ribs.
"I think that was a fairly decent start, though I'm sure there's room for improvement," he says at last, stroking my hair. It's a statement, but I can detect the faint note of questioning in it.
I control the urge to giggle in case he thinks I'm mocking his performance. It's just that sometimes he sounds so terribly, terribly English. More so than Reed, actually, because that little bastard had a vulgar streak in him that was very much to the fore during sex.
"Oh, I think we can agree it's laid a fairly sound foundation." I try to match his accent, and he immediately goes for the base of my ribs and starts to tickle me.
I can't tell you how many men I've slept with and I can't tell you the last time I was tickled. I try not to react, but he's horribly good, and soon I'm spending all the breath I still haven't got back in wailing for mercy, while we roll over and over in the bed with me trying to escape and him grabbing me and tickling me again.
"We'll wake Rama–!"
"Sod Rama! Are you going to make fun of my accent again, Madam?"
"No! I promise! Not till the next time–!"
"Not good enough!"
He doesn't accept anything short of total surrender. And I'm not giving him that while I'm laughing so much, so it's quite a while before we gasp ourselves into a standstill and just lie there looking at each other, tangled up in the sheets and with every pillow we have scattered all over the floor.
It's probably not until now that it becomes clear to me how completely controlled his usual expression is, even with me. For once the mask is not just down, but off. He's pink with exertion, his hair is mussed all over the place, and his face is sparkling with so much boyish delight that I practically don't recognize him at all.
I don't know what happens to me in that moment. Sex wouldn't have done it. I've had too many lovers down the years to mistake ecstasy for anything other than what it is, a physiological response to stimulation; however powerful it is, it comes and goes, and the world afterwards is unchanged. But as I lie looking at Austin – the Austin who's so effectively hidden behind the outer shell – I don't think I'll ever be quite the same again.
As for what it is? I'm not keen on labels. And this one is so new, so odd, that it will take time and thinking about before I'll even be ready to identify what the changes are, and in what way they'll affect my life from now on.
It won't change everything. We may still have to walk warily around each other, but maybe he too feels the existence of this slim silver thread of connection. If we're careful, it may hold. If we're not, it may break – and that would be more painful than I even want to think about right now.
He pulls me in to cuddle again, and as I fit into the curve of his arm it feels strangely natural. He yawns, and I yawn too.
I expected that when we were done he'd go back to his own room. He probably would if I said anything, but this is my territory so I call the shots.
Damn. It's been too long since I had a hand to reach out for, and sometimes even an Empress wakes in the night with bad dreams. He can stay.
As long as he picks all the pillows up, that is.
If you're enjoying this story, please leave a review. It seems the Emperor and his Empress have had a successful initial foray into marital intimacy. Knowing that he's not actually sexually attracted to her, and that the marriage was actually negotiated as part of a treaty making Austin the Emperor, do you think they will ever develop a deeper emotional connection or will sex always just be recreation and a mechanical exercise to fulfill their needs? Do you think they can have a satisfying intimate life over the long term?
