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Dreamrealms: blasphēmos gamisia

by Nikki Isaak © 2009


erotic fictionI stand near the interior entrance of the Queen’s Orgy Room, a wide circular tan room with a sunken silk- and cushion-covered center. 

Two-armed playing cards stand around me.  Some, like me, are royal blue.  Others, who serve Santiago Diamondking II , king of Cardspain, are carnation red, their picture-framed clothes deep purple.

Santiago Diamondking II jacks off in Heartjack’s mouth.  Diamondking’s three-dimensional member caresses, spurts over and between the Heartjack’s purple lips. 

The red Heartjack, whose name I don’t know, looks around.  Always thinking about better positions, those knavish palace jockeys!

My Queen – in name only, she’s cuckolding consort to my sovereign – Polly Diamondqueen, is lying in the middle of the sunken cushions, reveling in the tantric antics of her lovers. 

Trent Treyhearts, loyal to the Queen and stupid as a puppy, buries his face and tongue in her sex, making muted snarfling noises as one of Polly’ s chambermaids fucks his slightly rounded buttocks with a royal blue strap-on. 

Polly comes, clutching his head.  She pushes him away, forcing Darla Diamondeuce to surcease her almost-rapturous thrusts in Trent’s rectum.

Darla is a luscious, loving lay.  I, Stephen Jokerman, arranger of Polly’s “get-togethers,” often share Darla’s bed when these soirees are done. 

It breaks my heart to set these things up for “polyamorous Polly” (as Darla calls her).  But if I tell my monarch, Frederick Heartking IV, about it, he won’t believe me.  He won’t hear anything bad about his manipulative, scheming wife. 

Polly’s moans get louder.  Trent fucks her hard, the King of Cardspain watching, as he fondles his wine glass, his cock half-limp.

Polly screams, panting hard, as she comes again.

Darla, giving me a sideways look, exits the chamber as a Jackspade Guard opens one of the wooden doors for her. 

Soon, I nod.  She nods back, half-smiling.

Someone taps quietly on the door.  One of the Jackspade Guards, blue and burly, opens it.

Two tall, lean cards, members of the oft-feared Tarot, enter the Queen’s Orgy Room.

One of the Tarots, Charles Deathtarot, ink-framed with a sickle-bearing Grim Reaper, is friend and distant kin to my king. 

Charles snaps his fingers.  The seven red and blue Jackspade Guards drop to the ground, dead.

Charles smiles.  “Thank you, Stephen, for telling us about this.  We’ll fix any problems with Frederick.  Now go keep Darla happy on your honeymoon, and come back with a purple tan!”

As I leave, Charle’s companion, an unfamiliar Tower tarot, hums a Blue Öyster Cult song that sounds hit-familiar.

The Tower’s frame-picture frontside – a tower struck by a lightning, above a falling man – addresses the deathly-pale, outraged Polly, who starts to get up, her flabby tits flouncing.

“I’m James Lightningtower.  This, as you know, is Charles, cousin to your husband, your king – “

The wooden door slams shut.

She is so fucked.

© 2009 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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